Something More
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: The ever-evolving relationship between Ziva and Gibbs. Unusual, unorthodox, and totally right. It started with a stakeout, and nothing will ever be the same.
1. Day in, Day out

Twelve days. They had been watching the storage locker for twelve days. Gibbs looked at his watch. Five minutes until his and Ziva's shift was over.

Ziva. Boy, was he glad she was his stakeout partner. Not that the shifts had been determined purely by chance… Being the boss did have its perks. He shook his head at the thought of spending the entire shift with Dinozzo.

McGee would have been marginally better, but the incessant chatter of computer gobbledygook and stammering "Yes boss"es would have driven him to the brink insanity within the first three hours.

Ziva, on the other hand, was more than enjoyable as a stakeout partner. A few comments and observations here or there, but for the most part, she was as silent as he was.

But then, he wasn't surprised. She had been through similar experiences as he had, most likely. She knew the skills he did: to observe, the value of silence. She was level-headed and quick on her feet.

She reminded him of a young Jenny, before the politics of the job had driven her to play ball with the higher-ups. When Ziva first started working for him, she had been similar to Jenny in that she responded to authority quickly and efficiently—a result of her father's training, no doubt.

But as she had continued to work under him, she had taken on more of his characteristics; namely, shirking authority in favor of intuition. He remembered her disarming a bomb after being ordered to vacate a warehouse, her and Dinozzo remaining at his side at another bomb after being ordered to leave the premises…

"Do you think prostitutes get bored? I mean, the same work, day in, day out, day in, day out…"

"Ziver… The storage facility." But Gibbs knew where she was coming from. A week and half of sitting and waiting was getting to him too. She no longer reacted to the use of her new nickname, though she had the first time he used it.

It had been an early morning at the Navy Yard, and both Dinozzo and McGee had not arrived yet. The nickname had slipped out, but he had played it off as if it were intentional. She hadn't verbally questioned him, and he hadn't explained himself.

When he came out of the head ten minutes later, Dinozzo had shown up. He did a double-take as he noticed the black rings around the agent's eyes. He kept his expression blank, and only nodded at other man. He returned to the desk, shooting a inquiring glance at Ziva. Only the slightest smirk graced her lips, but the exaggerated wag of her head left no doubt in his mind she was the culprit.

Oh, yeah. And every now and then she lets slip that she has a wicked sense of humor beneath that tough assassin mask.

A few minutes later, McGee had shown up, and he and Ziva were leaving.

"Have a good day, McGee," she threw over her shoulder.

And then they were in the car and on their way back to D.C. region.


	2. Boobytraps and Problems

A/N: Episode isn't followed to the letter… This story is more character-base than case-centric, obviously.

Gibbs was looking at the video screen in front of him when something soft and warm brushed against his leg. A quick look below the table, and his breath hitched slightly while his heart rate doubled. His eyes were greeted by a firm, round—

He shifted in his seat to investigate further, but then her head poked up from behind the desk.

"Tony's going to try to get even," she said in way of explanation. "I know he has booby trapped _something_."

And then McGee showed up and was sent to fix the camera battery. Ziva returned to her post, and Gibbs found himself slightly disappointed. As he waited for McGee to get to the storage locker, his thoughts drifted until images of Ziva crawling on all fours like a cat, full of her natural grace, had nearly eclipsed all thoughts of the stakeout.

He also wondered who would win this battle of cunning. Ziva had the element of surprise, and her observational skills far surpassed those of his senior field agent. She also had natural instincts for avoiding threats, something that Dinozzo lacked.

But Dinozzo had years of experience in making criminals sweats. While Ziva had been trained to inflict bodily harm to get answers to questions, Tony had been forced to use subtlety and to develop an ability to make suspects so anxious they either let something slip or confess entirely.

Vastly different skill sets, both useful in a battle like this. Gibbs wondered if Ziva was aware of Tony's unusual tactics. Either way, the contest had accomplished something more. It had shown yet another facet of the assassin's personality.

While crawling under the table had served a practical purpose, the look in her eye when she had explained things to him was undeniable. There was twinkle there that was playful, and while the Mossad operative had been on guard, Gibbs knew that she was enjoying the challenge of the situation.

He doubted that pranks had ever been pulled on Mossad stakeouts, and he had to admit, seeing Ziva in such a mood had alleviated his own boredom as well.

Before the Marine had a chance to wonder what else he'll find out about Ziva during this stakeout, McGee's voice came in over the walkie-talkie.

"Boss, we got a problem."


	3. Omens and Paranoia

"Um, Ziva?" Agent Jardine's voice made Gibbs slow as he turned the corner. He paused, curious: what could Jardine have to say to Ziva?

"I don't know if I should say anything or not, but I saw Tony putting something under your car…" Gibbs smirked. It seems that Tony had the best revenge of all. Ziva had been acting paranoid all week, convinced that Tony would do something in retaliation for the binoculars, even though they had declared a truce.

"I told you." Her voice drifted across the bullpen. "I told you he could not be trusted!" Anticipating her next move, he made his way to the elevator. The door was closing on Ziva just as he reached it, and a quick hand between the doors allowed him access.

He entered the elevator, and stood observing Ziva as the doors closed the rest of the way. She was leaning with her back against the metal wall of the lift, and her relaxed posture contradicted the paranoia evident in her voice a mere minute ago.

"You know Dinozzo is playing you," he stated, his voice casual. He mirrored her position on the wall opposite her. She smirked.

"Of course," she replied. "And I know he told Jardine to tell me that. Even if I hadn't observed him doing so, I still would have known that he wasn't doing anything to my car." He arched an eyebrow at her. "What would he have done? Cut my brake lines, plant a car bomb? He wouldn't do something that would physically harm me. My prank was harmless. I just hurt his pride. And I figure that if seeing me a paranoid mess would help restore his over-sized ego, I might as well play along."

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. "The basement?" Gibbs asked. "A bit far from the car park, you know." She nodded slowly, a small smirk on her lips.

"You're right," she said, her voice filled with false realization. "And that _would_ be problem, if I were going to the car park." She grinned. "I guess it is a good thing I am going to visit Abby, no?"

With that, she exited the lift and strutted off towards the Goth's lab, leaving Gibbs alone in the metal compartment. He watched her go, and his eyes drifted to her sashaying derrière, grinning as he recalled seeing it underneath the surveillance desk in the stakeout nest.

He waited until she had disappeared into the DNA lab, and then pushed the button that would take him back to the bullpen. As he rose, he thought about her comments on Dinozzo's nature.

She spoke with the assuredness of a person who knew her partner inside and out; a quality the Marine was surprised to see. It wasn't too long ago that his senior field agent had been blatantly lying to her in order to sneak away to meet with his mysterious lady friend, often leaving the Mossad officer to cover and pick up his slack.

The Ziva of three years ago would never have trusted the Italian again, no matter how much he tried to make it up to her. But the current Ziva, whom he himself had helped shape into an investigator, had trusted him a little too easily for Gibbs' taste: she hadn't even made Tony grovel to get back on her good side.

And now Gibbs thought she was being a little too generous as to what Dinozzo would or would not do. The thought of Tony doing something stupid made his gut churn ominously. He only hoped, for Tony's sake, she was right.


	4. Retribution

Gibbs was just sitting down at his desk after briefing Captain Pullman on the outcome of their investigation when a loud crash and a yelp came from his right. His head snapped towards the sound, only to find that Ziva had disappeared from sight.

When the Mossad officer's head peeked over her desk to shoot a glare across the bullpen, he realized what had happened: Tony had gotten his revenge, as evident by Ziva's chair in pieces beneath her.

His eyes narrowed as the urge to do more than slap the back of Dinozzo's head surged through him. Scenarios of the seemingly harmless prank having gone seriously wrong flashed through his mind.

His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to call attention to the situation, as a part of his mind realized his other agents had taken the smartest plan of action by ignoring the event completely. Ziva would not appreciate any additional attention, and she did not seem to be injured by her fall.

So instead he stayed put, focusing on his computer. He continued to do so until his team individually began to finish their follow-up reports. McGee completed his first, packing up his bag and leaving with a "Good night, Boss" and a nod in Gibbs' direction.

Ziva left next, finishing her paperwork before her partner, even after having gone to fetch a new chair from supply. She slung her backpack over her shoulder expertly and when she caught him looking at her, smiled and offered a low "Good night, Gibbs." He noticed that instead of using the closest elevator, she went to the one in the back, which led to the secondary car park.

As soon as he heard the doors ding closed, Gibbs stood.

"Dinozzo!" he barked. His senior field agent jumped and then vaulted to his feet in response to his boss's tone.

"Yes, Boss," he replied, his back and shoulders stiff at attention.

"My office! Right now!" Gibbs led the way with the younger agent trailing close behind. The Marine smacked the call button for the main elevator, and immediately the doors opened.

Both agents entered and as soon the elevator started moving Gibbs slammed the emergency stop switch into the off position, throwing them both into shadow.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he growled, swerving around to get up in the Italian's face. Dinozzo took the tiniest of steps back at his boss's intensity, but then held his ground with a gulp.

"Boss?"

"What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking?"

"You mean, with the chair?" Tony asked, a weak smile graced his lips. "Boss, she started it—"

"The last time that excuse worked you were in diapers. And she put a bit of black paint on a pair of binoculars, Dinozzo. Harmless. Now tell me, genius, what about your little payback plan was harmless?"

"Boss, she's fine… Ninja reflexes—"

"Are the only things keeping your hide from being mine. She could have been seriously injured, Dinozzo: broken an arm or a hip, or cracked her head on the desk."

"I didn't think—"

"That's obvious. The next time you risk your partner's safety for the sake of your pride, you will be out on your ass so fast you won't know what hit you. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly." The younger man's voice broke slightly. With one last glare, Gibbs took a slow step back. Then he turned and flipped the switch to its original position.

"Boss," Dinozzo said as the elevator filled with light, "honestly, I thought she would catch it before she sat down. I never thought it would actually come to anything…"

"Well that's part of her problem," Gibbs said, keeping his eyes on the doors in front of him. "She actually trusts you."

The doors opened, and the Marine stalked out silently, leaving Dinozzo speechless in the elevator behind him.


	5. Forgiveness

Four hours after the confrontation in the elevator, Gibbs was standing in front of Ziva's apartment. He had come… for what exactly? He wasn't altogether sure. To make sure she was not physically injured, maybe. More likely, to make sure she hadn't murdered Dinozzo and gotten rid of the body.

Whatever the reason, he was here now, and he had the choice to either walk away, or to act. Never being one to second guess himself, no matter the reasoning behind his decisions, Gibbs raised his hand to knock, and was surprised when the door swung open before his hand could make contact.

"Ziver," he said. The Mossad officer was standing in the entry way, her face creased in an easy smile. His eyes traveled to her hands, which he was alarmed to find were covered in bloody hand-wraps.

"Do not worry," she said, "the blood is not Tony's." The Marine looked up to see her smirking. Their eyes met, and Gibbs was relieved to see hers sparkle. The incident in the bullpen didn't seem to be bothering her. After a moment, she cocked her head and stood aside, silently inviting him into her apartment.

"I was wondering if you would show up tonight," Ziva said, shutting the door behind her boss.

"I wasn't aware my coming over was even an option until twenty minutes ago," he replied. "Why would it have even crossed your mind?"

"Well," she replied, moving to a plush couch in the center of the room. "Considering I found Dinozzo on my porch tonight after my work out with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, I figured you might have had something to do with it." She sat and began removing the wraps from her hands. Gibbs smirked.

"Flowers?" he questioned, a small smirk twisting his lips. She waved toward the kitchen, where he could see a rather impressive assortment of flowers featured prominently in a crystal vase. He had to hand it to Dinozzo; he never did anything half-way. He turned back to her. "And how did flowers automatically make you think of me, David?"

"The thoroughly chastised look on his face was an indictator. That and the fact Tony doesn't think to get a girl flowers of his own volition unless he thinks he has a shot at getting into her skirt." Her grin suddenly turned slightly malicious. "And I have informed him repeatedly of what would happen should he attempt to get anywhere near my skirt." Gibbs smirked.

"McGee could have given him advice."

"Tony asking McGee for advice?" she scoffed. She stood and gathered the wraps into her now-bare hands and crossed into the kitchen. "That would be a first." She deposited the blood-stained cloth in the sink. "And you were the only one besides Tony and myself to mention our little tiff."

Tiff? Volition? Chastised? For someone who frequently misused American colloquialisms, she was using a rather advanced vocabulary tonight. Gibbs was beginning to suspect her difficulty with idioms were more for Tony's benefit than out of true confusion.

"He went over the line," he said, dropping all pretenses, "and I called him on it."

"It was harmless, Gibbs. In fact, I wish I had thought to use it myself instead of the binoculars…"

"No," he disagreed, his voice harsher than he intended. She looked at him sharply, and her relaxed posture tensed slightly in reaction. "No," he continued, softer this time. He stepped closer to her. "Even if you had thought of it, you wouldn't have used it."

"No?"

"No." He took another step closer. "You wouldn't have. He crossed the line from playful to vengeful."

"I am fine, Gibbs. I was not injured. My pride took a blow, but it happens to be incredibly resilient." She held out her arms. "See? No damage."

"Your reflexes kept you from injury, Ziva. It doesn't change the fact that he put his own pride before his partner." Another step. "Before you."

Ziva gazed up at him, and he could see that she was rapidly processing his words, and attempting to interpret his meaning. She had sensed a change in the tone of the conversation, he knew; she was perceptive to a fault. After a few long moments, she spoke.

"You are overreacting, Gibbs." She paused. Her next words were hesitant. "You know, you came back from Mexico to help me clear my name when Eschel framed me. You have not owed me for a long time."

He was floored at the idea that she thought he was concerned out of obligation. "This is not about you helping me get my memories back." Another step. "Trust is important in any relationship. You trusted him, even when he had not earned it. This is the second time he's abused it: flowers are the least he can do."

He had meant for his last words to make her smile, but instead her eyes lost their mirth, and she broke eye contact by dropping her gaze to the floor. Concern flared within him, but he stamped it down, knowing that if he ever wanted to know what was going through her head, he couldn't push her.

"What if he just… left?" she asked in a low voice. "What if he went to some obscure location without so much as a goodbye, and did not tell anyone where he was, without any way to get in touch with him?" Ziva lifted her gaze once more, looking into his eyes with a piercing stare. "Would flowers redeem him then as well?"

Her question hit him like a kick in the gut. Her eyes were searching his again, as if she thought the answer to her question would be there. Gibbs' mind started racing, as questions of his own rose to the forefront.

Why was she waiting until now, a year and a half later, to bring up her issues with his leaving? He hadn't realized that she had been bothered at all: he had known her the least amount of time before his departure. Not only that, she had always struck him as a person to immediately address any problems she had with someone. It had been a quality he understood completely—in her experience, and in his military years, problems not addressed immediately may never be resolved. One or both of the parties in question could be dead the next day.

"Ziva…" He stepped closer, but this time, she stepped away.

"I am sorry. I should not have asked. It is not my place." She made to turn away, but Gibbs grasped her arm gently, yet firmly.

"Ziva." She stopped, but didn't turn around. "You have every right to upset with me for leaving. I—" For the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what to say.

"It is all right." Her words broke the ensuing silence. "I understand. I do not blame you for not wanting to stay, after what happened." She paused before continuing. "If anything, I should be thanking you for not sending me back to Israel."

"What?" Gibbs was finding himself becoming more and more confused. "Ziva, I don't—"

"I do not think I would have been so accommodating if I had just been informed that I had trusted a fratricidal assassin whose family had been the cause of a two-year obsession and the death of one of your teammates."

The venom in her voice alarmed him, but the situation was becoming clearer. He needed to put this, and her pain, to rest. He pulled her around to face him. She refused to look at him, keeping her eyes on her bare feet. He kept a grip on her arm with one hand, and used his other to grasp her chin, forcing her attention to his face.

"My decision had nothing to do with you," he said. His voice left no room for doubt. "I had just come out of a coma, gotten years of memory back, and was pissed at my superiors for not listening to me and causing the deaths of those sailors. I was tired of them, and let's face it, Mike Franks was probably not the best person to have spent time with in my weakened state." His last statement earned a wry smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her eyes haunted in its wake.

"Ziva," he continued, "I have _never_ held you responsible for your brother's actions. You saved my life, and by doing that made the ultimate sacrifice. You killed your brother, knowing that it would have serious repercussions with your father, Mossad, and Hamas. You are more than your family history, Ziva. Don't you ever doubt that."

She looked up at him, and this time her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her breath hitched, and he pulled her into a tight hug just as her tears started to fall. She clutched him as she shook, her tears dampening his shirt. He flashed back to a similar scene that occurred in his hospital room, but this time, it was different. These weren't the tears of painful memories being wrestled to the surface; these were the tears of someone wrought with guilt, whose memories had been eating at her for years.

He stroked her dark hair in a soothing rhythm. _Oh, Ziver,_ he thought, _why didn't you tell me?_ Eventually her sobs ceased, and when the tenseness left her limbs, he pulled away the slightest bit. She did as well, and looked up at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. His hand reached up, and his thumb brushed at the dampness on her skin.

The world around them seemed to fade away as his eyes focused on her lips, soft and delicate in the ambiance of her apartment. Ever so slowly, he leaned his head down to hers. Before he could make contact, she covered the remaining distance, pressing her lips to his. The contact was firm and unyielding, sending a shock through his entire body. Her arm reached up and her hand cradled the back of his head.

They broke apart, and Ziva's brown eyes were once again brimming with emotion. He reached up and tucked a lock of dark curl behind her ear. The motion was intimate, and she pressed into his touch. To him the act was wholly endearing, so unlike the brusque persona she showed the rest of the world. In the next instance their lips met again, this time with intensity unlike any kiss he had ever experienced before.

All thoughts of Tony, pranks, the job, and most importantly, Rule number 12, vanished from his mind, leaving it vulnerable to the images of Ziva that flooded in.

And for that moment in time, Ziva was the only person in his universe, and he was concerned with nothing else.


	6. 3 Months Later

_Three Months Later…_

Gibbs walked into the bullpen and was surprised to see Ziva already at her desk working.

"Good morning Gibbs," she said. Only the tiniest of smirks belied the fact that she had already bid him good morning earlier—in a much more intimate setting. He molded in response to her greeting.

"David," he said. "You're here early."

"I had left some paperwork unfinished last night in favor of more pleasurable activities," she said, her voice warm. "I thought I would come in early and finish it this morning, which I have."

"Good. I don't have to tell you to not let it happen again."

"A wise decision." She smiled. "Because I do not think I can guarantee that it will not happen again. In fact, I hope it happens again _very_ soon." It was the most blatant display of flirting they had allowed in the workplace. The decision to keep their relationship hidden was an unconscious one. After that first night, they had split in the morning to get ready for the day, and gone to work. There had been no need to announce the development, and there hasn't been a need since. Every now and then they indulged in some banter when they were alone in the office, and they enjoyed it while it lasted. Both knew that once their colleagues arrived, it would be all business.

Before Gibbs had a chance to respond to her loaded statement, the elevator chimed and Tony emerged, whistling to himself.

"Buenos dias, mi bonita," he said. When he saw Gibbs, he gave a respectful nod. "Gibbs." He dropped his backpack behind his desk and took his seat. "I had a great night last night." This he directed at Ziva, who barely spared him a glance. "It would have been even better if you had been there, sweetcheeks."

Shortly after the controversial prank incident, their usual banter had returned. Sexual innuendos and teasing barbs had been traded across the bullpen, and every now and then casual brushes of physical contact were seen in the field. Their partnership was on the mend. Normally, Gibbs would have been relieved at the restored chemistry between his two agents. Instead, he found his gut twisted in jealousy. Seeing the physical contact always elicited the worst response. Dinozzo had gotten many a slap to the head, under the pretense of bothering his partner.

Ziva always knew how it affected him, no matter how well he hid his displeasure from everyone else. Whenever Tony turned on the charm, she would always reassure Gibbs somehow; a look here, a tiny quirk of her lips there. Once she subtly brushed her hand against his in the elevator. He had initially thought it had been accidental, but the barely-there wink she gave him told him it had been entirely intentional. She was adept at silent communication, a skill Gibbs was continuously thanking her Mossad training for.

After hours, all pretense of boss-employee was dropped, and they became equals. Gibbs had been granted a glimpse of another side to the Mossad officer. She was a neat freak, and was frequently cleaning her apartment, and when it was spotless, she moved on to cleaning her firearms. He had already found a gun between the sofa cushions, in her sock drawer, and in the linen closet in addition to the one she kept under her pillow. When he called them to her attention, she had said nothing, but the mischievous grin made him suspect there were many more he had yet to find.

She was passionate and sensual, and while she still tended toward the functional end of the spectrum, there were little guilty pleasures she allowed herself. Whenever she showered, she would spend half an hour afterwards rubbing lotion into her skin; a task he loved to participate in. It was unscented, but it was incredibly effective in making her skin soft and silky. Ziva hated scented candles, lotions, and air fresheners, claiming the chemicals in them burned her nose. Instead she had live flowers and plants throughout her apartment and they permeated the place with a subtle fragrance.

She loved to cook, and made a plethora of different dishes. Many were from family recipes and used spices common in the Middle East. She was also fond of Mexican and Latin American food, and the scents of the different spices combined with those of her plants to create a natural perfume that was unique to Ziva.

Most of the time, they stayed together at his house. She said it was because it had more room, but upon further questioning, he discovered that her father had spied on her apartment in the past, and that she preferred to keep her private life private. He understood, and left it at that. He had been surprised at her proficiency in the domestic scenes they found themselves in.

They often cooked together, moving around his kitchen with natural ease. They would each have their separate tasks, and they would go about their business, sometimes in silence, sometimes with music in the background, or sometimes while carrying on a conversation. They always moved without hesitation and never got in each other's way. The finale of their dance would be the unveiling of the finished product, and even dishes he had eaten many times in the past tasted better than they ever had before.

Sometimes he went with her to the gym, just as sometimes she helped him with his boat. She would teach him new techniques to use in a fight, and he would show her how to use his woodworking tools. Many times she would do more than mimic his motions as he sanded or chiseled—she would ask questions: Why not sand against the grain, or, why use the mallet and not the hammer? He had thought she would have a certain aversion to his basement, given the events that had occurred there. But many times he had found her there, waiting for him. Sometimes she would be working on his boat, sometimes cleaning her weapon, or even throwing her knife absently at a stud.

"I had fun of my own last night." Ziva's words brought Gibbs back to the present. He took a swig of his coffee, idly wondering how she was going to handle Dinozzo now that his interest was piqued.

"Oh, really?" Dinozzo chirped predictably. "Do tell."

"A lady does not kiss and tell, Tony," she replied, her head tilted demurely.

"Hah," Tony affected. "I knew your night wasn't as exciting as mine. I bet there wasn't even any kissing." Ziva did not reply. "Let me guess. He took you to the opera. Shakespeare? If he's a fan of watching men in tights, I hear the _Nutcracker_ is in town." He grinned. "Oh no! Wait! You stayed in last night, curling up in front of a fake fire in his apartment, reading War and Peace?" His tone was mocking, though Ziva was unfazed.

"We did stay in last night, but I assure you we were not reading."

"Oh yeah?" Tony leaned across his desk at her conspiratorially. "Then tell me." She looked at him skeptically for a moment. Then, as if she had decided he was trustworthy, she then folded her hands intently.

"Two words." She mirrored his position, leaning towards him. "Honey dust."

Gibbs nearly choked on his coffee. There certainly had _not_ been any honey dust last night. But, now that she mentioned it…

"Honey dust!" Tony seemed impressed. "That's expensive stuff. Some guy must really like you if he got you that. So did he use it on you? You use it on him? Or was it more of a, mutual interaction?" His barrage of questions was interrupted by Ziva's condescending laugh. Gibbs sat back and waited for the punch line.

"Tony, Tony, Tony," she said. "I never said it was a man."

Tony's jaw dropped, and his eyes glazed over. Gibbs tried to think about anything other than the fact that Dinozzo was fantasizing about Ziva with another woman. The following silence was broken by the ding of the elevator as McGee stepped out.

"Good morning, McGee," Ziva said pleasantly.

"Morning Ziva, Boss." He paused. "What's wrong with Tony?"

"Oh, he just got some news that he appears to be unable to handle."

"Ziva… dust… woman…" Tony muttered incoherently. McGee's eyebrows rose.

"I don't want to know," he decided. He turned and continued on to his desk. At that point, Gibbs' phone rang, and he answered it gruffly. After listening intently for a few minutes, he hung up and started barking orders.

"Gear up! Dinozzo, McGee!"

"Yes boss!"

"Gas the truck, meet us at the scene. David, you're with me."

"Yes boss!"

McGee and Tony took off as Ziva gathered her things and waited for Gibbs. They waited for the elevator in silence. It opened a minute later to reveal an empty car. They got in, and Gibbs waited for the doors to close before he spoke.

"Honey dust?"


	7. Developments

The doors to Abby's lab swished open with a blast of pounding music. Caf-Pow in hand, he tread quietly over to the stereo and quickly shut it off.

"Gibbs!" The energetic cry of the forensic scientist pierced his eardrums. "You're just in time! Major MassSpec was just about to give me the results on the fiber analysis from your crime scene." The machine in question beeped. "See! " She glanced at the sheet of paper it spit out, and Gibbs could see the cogs in her mind going a 1000 rpms a second. "Well, it's cotton, which is bad, cause you know cotton is like oxygen: it's everywhere." She paused for his reaction.

"Abs…"

"But it's a little hinky, which is good. Hinky is unique, like a fingerprint! Speaking of which, your fingerprints are running through AFIS. Well, not your prints specifically, but the prints from your crime scene, because obviously your prints wouldn't be in AFIS, I could just check them against the ones in your personnel file—"

"Get to the hinky part, Abby."

"Oh right. Well, I'm not sure what the hinky part is yet. The results from _this_ analysis make me think that it's organic, but I can't be positive. Once I am, though, you will be the first to know." Her expression suddenly became very serious, and Gibbs was slightly alarmed at the suspiciousness of her gaze. "Or maybe you _won't_ be the first to know." Gibbs kept his expression blank. "You know, Gibbs, I thought our relationship was special." Alarm flared within the Marine, and he instantly thought back to determine how and when he and Ziva might have let something slip around Abby. "You are _always_ the first person I tell my news to," she continued.

"You didn't tell me about your stalker." Abby paused at that.

"You're right," she admitted. "But most things, the _important_ things, I tell you. You are my go-to person. And I thought I was _your_ go-to person. But apparently, I was wrong. And I am _never_ wrong." She took a step closer, encroaching on his personal space. He held his ground, allowing her to scrutinize him with keen eyes.

"You have a new lady friend," she accused. Gibbs blinked. He wasn't surprised that she had figured it out; he just hoped she hadn't yet figured out who his lady friend was. His fears were put to rest as she continued. "I don't know who yet, but there is definitely someone."

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"You're happier. Like you were with the Army lady, only more so this time. There hasn't been a single day yet where you have been crabby at work for no apparent reason like when you got in a fight with Col. Mann." He arched an eyebrow. "Oh, don't worry, I don't think anyone else noticed. Like I said, we're special." She rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms. "But don't think that our relationship will keep me from figuring out who you're seeing. Because I _will_ find out."

Gibbs grinned, and then stepped forward to kiss her cheek. "I wouldn't expect anything less," he said. He set her Caf-Pow on the metal table and made for the elevator. When the doors opened, Ziva was on the other side. He caught her arm as she attempted to sidle past him. Knowing something was up, she kept silent until the doors closed again, and the elevator began to rise.

"I was just going to check on the tire treads from our scene—" she began before being interrupted by Gibbs.

"Not a good idea right now." Her expression became alarmed.

"Is Abby depressed again? Last time she was, she said talking to me helped her gain clarity. Perhaps I should offer my services again…" Gibbs' smile made her pause. "What?"

"She's fine," he responded. "But she's on the warpath. She's deduced that I have a new 'lady friend', and she is determined to figure out who she is." Ziva's gaze was calculating.

"So it is only a matter of time, then."

"She has taught you well."

"Hey, I know better than to doubt Abby's skills." She paused. "Do you think she will be upset when she finds out?" The concerned expression on Ziva's face made Gibbs' heart speed up. It meant a lot to him for her to recognize the unique relationship between him and the Goth, and her reluctance to cause harm to it was just another indication that despite her sometimes rough exterior, she was actually quite empathetic.

"Probably," he responded. She looked at him in alarm. She opened her mouth to speak, but his finger against her lips silenced her. "She will get over it," he said. "She'll be hurt we didn't tell her, but she'll understand, and once she cools down, she will be happy for us." The Mossad officer relaxed slightly.

"I hope you are right," she said. "I remember what it was like when I first came, and she did not like or trust me. I would not like to lose her friendship now."

"She'll be fine. Just let her vent when the time comes." Ziva nodded in response. The elevator doors open onto the squad room with a ding, and Gibbs exited, followed closely by Ziva.

"Director wants you both in his office ASAP," Tony told them as soon as he noticed their arrival. He seemed to be about to make some pithy remark, but one glare from Gibbs made him rethink it. "She didn't say what it was about," he added lamely.

Gibbs made his way to the staircase without answering, Ziva close behind. Gibbs nodded to Cynthia on his way in without pausing. The secretary didn't even bother to attempt alerting the Director. They barged in unannounced and found Jenny Shepard waiting for them.

"Jethro, Ziva," she said, her words lilting.

"You wanted to see us, Jen?" He didn't bother calling her Director, as both he and Ziva knew her personally. Plus, he knew it would drive her crazy.

"I did, Agent Gibbs," she replied, smoothly reestablishing her authority. She motioned for them both to sit, which they did. "Next week is the UN summit. I will be attending the Gala dinner event prior to it. I want you two there."

"Protection detail?" Gibbs asked. The Director shook her head.

"Yes and no," she said. "Consider it a plainclothes operation. There will be another, more specialized protection detail for both myself and the building itself. You two will be there as guests. Your purpose will be both to make nice to the politicians and keep your eyes open for suspicious activity."

"Has there been a threat made against the event or one of the attendees?" Ziva asked. Gibbs noticed a change in her posture; she was spine was stiff, and he knew she was getting into mission mode.

"Not any of the attendees specifically," Jen continued. "But this event is too big a target to assume there isn't a threat, even if one has not been issued. I want you there as a safeguard."

"If you want us on protection, then put us on protection," Gibbs interjected. "Why the pretense?"

"As guests you will be able to access more of the building without raising alarm. In addition to that, the two of you have the most international experience of the Major Case Team. Ziva already has a considerable amount of leverage with several of the politicians in attendance, and you, Agent Gibbs, will get the chance to shine for NCIS in the world's view." The Director grinned. "Cynthia will provide you with the details for where and when. You are both dismissed."

The two agents stood, and while Ziva left, Gibbs lingered.

"I don't like being paraded around like a prize pet, and you know it. You doing this to spite me, Jen?"

"I am doing this because you two are the most capable agents for this assignment, Agent Gibbs," she replied, her voice sharp. Then her face creased into a grin. "The spitefulness of it all just makes it that much more enjoyable." Gibbs froze for a moment, but then the slightest quirk of his lips belied his mild amusement at her words.

He turned away without another word and ambled out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.


	8. The Dangers of Politics

It was the dreaded night two weeks later and Gibbs was standing in the empty squad room, using the mirror from Dinozzo's desk to secure the bow-tie of his tuxedo around his neck. The other employees were long gone, heading home to their families or pets, or even to a cold beer on the couch. The lights had been dimmed to conserve energy, but it made his preparations that much more difficult.

He was dressed to the nines in a traditional black tuxedo. The suit itself was a simple generic tuxedo, but he wore it as if it were tailored especially to fit him. He finally managed to knot his tie properly, and as he double-checked his appearance, his thoughts drifted to how Ziva was faring. She had disappeared into the Director's office hours ago. Jenny had offered the services of her professional hairstylist, and Ziva had accepted.

Gibbs had discovered that she enjoyed dressing up every now and then. He had asked her why she didn't wear dresses whenever she was not on the job, to which she had pegged him with an incredulous stare. She had proceeded to inform him that it was impractical for someone in her line of work. On top of that, he discovered that she only enjoyed dressing up in moderation. She had vaguely referenced an undercover operation that had required her to dress formally almost every day, and she had gotten tired of it all. So she simply indulged when circumstances called for it. So she had gone shopping for a dress on her own time, indulging in the frivolity of acting like a stereotypical woman.

The only problem he had developed at her latest development was the fact that she refused to let him peek at the dress she had selected for this evening's event. The Mossad officer had said that it was vital to keeping their relationship from the Director's attention. If he did not react appropriately to seeing her gown for the first time, the Director would know he had seen her in it before, a concept that would set off thousands of red flags. Gibbs saw the logic in her reasoning, but he also had the sneaking suspicion that Ziva was getting a kick out of seeing him and his blatant curiosity.

Five minutes later, he heard the click of a door closing. He looked up and saw Jenny descending the stairs. She was clad in a sophisticated black dress that complemented her red hair while simultaneously contrasting with her fair complexion. It created a dramatic image, and was conservative enough to keep the dignity of the agency intact.

When she came around the corner of the staircase to join him she stopped and looked at him, as if daring him to make some Dinozzo-worthy comment. He did not rise to the bait, instead proffering his black-clad arm to her.

"You look beautiful, Jen," he said as she hooked her arm in his.

"Thank you, Jethro," she replied. "You don't look too bad yourself." She smiled. "I had almost forgotten you owned something that didn't smell like sawdust." He grinned. After a moment, she spoke again. "Shall we get going?" Gibbs glanced back at the staircase, surprised that Ziva had not appeared yet.

"Ziva get lost up there?"

"She got a head start," Jen replied. He wasn't sure what to think about that. Did it mean she was already on her way to the Gala? Had she come down the stairs and gone past him without him realizing? He certainly wouldn't put it past her. However, he schooled his features and shrugged.

"Then let's go," he said. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave." They made their way to the elevator, their pace a bit slower than normal to accommodate Jen's high-heeled shoes. He pushed the call button for the elevator, and they only had to wait a moment before it chimed its arrival, unwittingly signaling the tumultuous upheaval of Jethro Gibbs' world.

The metal doors slid open to reveal Ziva, who was leaning fluidly against the rear wall of the elevator car. Gibbs froze, and he had to force himself to breathe as his eyes took in her sinuous form. Smoky silver heels were strapped to her delicate feet, and those strong, muscular legs he knew so well disappeared quickly beneath the diaphanous skirt of the Greek-goddess gown she wore. It was a rich purple, softened by the layers of sheer material it was made of. Silver-scaled straps rested on soft shoulders and snaked down the sides of her bosom before encircling her chest just under her bust-line. Her graceful neck was left unadorned, though the nearly-clear blue topaz dangling from her earlobes on silver chains brushed against the bare skin as she moved her head. The elegance of the ensemble was made complete by the stylish upsweep of her ebony mane, which had been left naturally curly. Her hair was longer than he had realized, as there was enough length left after the upsweep to allow her curls to rest gently against one shoulder.

Brown eyes looked up at him from beneath shadowed lids. As he watched, her eyes darkened almost imperceptibly, but enough to tell him that she was wholly aware of the effect she had on him.

"Good evening, Gibbs," she said, her voice sultry. "You are looking very handsome tonight. Very… how would Dinozzo say? Very James Bond." She smiled slightly when he did not respond.

"If you aren't going to say anything Jethro," Jen interjected, "at least close your mouth." He obeyed, his eyes still glued to Ziva. "You can definitely spot the ones who have never seen you in a dress before, Ziva."

"It is all right, Jen," Ziva replied. "Many times the goal is to elicit Gibbs' reaction exactly." She smiled. "I consider it an indication of a job well done."

"Very well done," Gibbs was able to say finally. "Gorgeous, Officer David." He and Jen stepped into the elevator to allow the doors to close behind them. "Next time we have a difficult suspect, we'll just throw him in a room with you as you are right now: he'll be putty in your hands."

"Don't even try to guess how many weapons she managed to fit under that dress," Jen warned. "We could make a drinking game out of it." Gibbs chuckled and Ziva grinned.

"Well, I had to make tonight worthwhile somehow," she said in her accented deadpan.

Jen and Gibbs were still chuckling when they exited the elevator and made their way to the waiting limousine.

Three hours later and Gibbs was most decidedly ready to leave. He had shaken hands with too many politicians to count, and he stopped trying to remember names after the tenth. He found the entire event dull and stuffy; full of pompous politicians who spoke of nothing but god-knows-what. He had long abandoned the attempt to make conversation as well. He instead directed his efforts towards simply observing the guests, and surveying the building that hosted the event.

The main ballroom they were in was cavernous, but to Gibbs it wouldn't be more cramped. There hadn't been any immediate activity of suspicious nature, so he had taken time to explore the adjoining rooms. Most were of little consequence, but he had found a gem behind a door on the far wall. The door led to a greenhouse, with high glass walls that soared up to meet the glass-paned ceiling. He had found it devoid of human presence save his own, and he had spent a few minutes there recollecting himself after the chronic stress of playing politics with the bigwigs in the main room.

When he finally returned to the ballroom, his keen eyes sought to locate the familiar forms of the women he came in with. He found Jen quickly, who was engaged in a quiet one-on-one conversation with an older gentleman he himself had met almost an hour ago. Deciding she was fine for time being, he shifted his attention to Ziva, whom he could not spot from his position by the wall. He made his way across the room, and was nearly halfway when he finally spotted her.

The Mossad officer was in the midst of a heated conversation with a group of bearded men. Her voice was low, too low for him to hear what she was saying, but the intent gazes of her listeners suggested that it was highly interesting. One man in particular caught the Marine's eye; the bearded man was staring darkly at the beautiful Israeli, and it was if there was nothing else in the room worth noticing. Gibbs felt the familiar burn of jealousy in his gut at the man's obvious enrapture.

Suddenly, the man in question threw himself into a loud tirade of some unrecognizable language. Gibbs' gut relaxed when he realized the man was merely passionate on the debate topic, given his nearly spasmodic hand motions as he spoke. Ziva remained unfazed, and when the man had finished his soliloquy, she calmly responded in what seemed to be the same indiscernible language. Gibbs thought it could be Russian, but he could not be certain. Satisfied that neither woman was in any danger or distress, he retreated to his self-designated post along the wall.

The position he had found gave him an unobstructed view of the room, and two exits could be easily reached if necessary. He was certain that Ziva was as aware of her surroundings as he was, but since she had taken on the diplomatic aspect of their assignment, he had decided to assume the security responsibilities of the Director's request.

The next time he saw Ziva, about twenty minutes later, she was alone for the first time since walking through the door. She seemed to be cataloguing the details of the room in her mind, storing them away for future reference. When she seemed satisfied that her Mossad skills were not needed for the time being, her attention then turned to her attire. Her hands flitted over her dress and brushed against her hair to make certain everything was where it should be. As Gibbs watched, another man approached her, but the moment Ziva set eyes on him, he knew something set this man apart from the others.

Ziva tensed slightly as he approached; not enough to arouse obvious suspicion, but he could tell that she was ready to spring at any time. This man was tan, with dark hair and eyes. His face was long and angular, and white teeth could be seen between his lips as he smiled at her. His own posture was relaxed, and the easy nature with which he greeted her told Gibbs they knew one another.

Ziva's expression was cordial, but the Marine recognized it as the one she used when faced with something unpleasant. Gibbs immediately felt the need to intercede, but he refrained, knowing that Ziva would not appreciate the rescue. In fact, she would probably be offended.

Gibbs continued to watch their exchange, eventually focusing in on her lips in an attempt to discern their words. But the movements were rapid and unfamiliar. He suspected it was Hebrew, seeing as they both knew each other and shared similar complexions. Gibbs didn't move to break up their conversation until the unknown man's hand snaked out and latched onto Ziva's.

But the Marine's movement was rendered unnecessary when Ziva grabbed the offending hand and twisted it. Her movements were subtle, perfected from years of covert training, but its effectiveness was clearly evident in the man's now pained expression. As Gibbs continued to move closer, he could hear her snap at him, clearly chastising him. Just before Gibbs reached her, she said one last thing and let go of the hand she had captured, which he pulled back instantly. Without saying anything else the man left.

"Who was that?" Gibbs asked, coming up behind her quietly. Her head shot up to meet his gaze, and he saw an irritated fire in her eyes. She hesitated, but then sighed before she spoke. Her consequent words made him arch an eyebrow; she had answered in Hebrew, and did not appear to realize it. He cleared his throat slightly. She looked at him in confusion.

"Mah yesh?" she said. He looked at her expectantly. A moment more of confusion passed before she realized her mistake. "I am sorry. I did that with the ambassador of Spain as well: he was so confused when I started speaking to him in Russian." He didn't miss the subtle avoidance of his question.

"And the idiot you were talking to?" She shot him a sharp look, but then decided to let it go.

"No one." Her voice was flat. "Just an old friend."

"Uh huh," he said, but didn't push her. The last thing he needed was for Ziva to clam up. This gala was unpleasant enough as it is. He decided to steer towards a safe topic. "I see you made some new friends tonight." His attempt was awarded with a small smile.

"I do not know if I would say friends," she applied. "But let us say that if we need a favor from the Russian embassy, send me to retrieve it."

"That's my girl." Her head whipped around again at his endearment. She didn't seem as upset so much as surprised, which he was glad to see. He gazed around the ballroom. "You would think they would at least have some dancing at this shindig." Her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"What is a shindig?"

"Something between a party and a gathering of people." She nodded as she filed the definition away. She gazed out over the room, observing its occupants with a cool eye. He did as well, enjoying the simple act of being near her. His senses were suddenly attuned to her warm form as it lightly brushed against his chest, and the room around them. He searched for any sudden movement, or anything that seemed suspicious.

Suddenly, Ziva went rigid in front of him. He looked at her in immediate concern, but the stream of Hebrew issuing from her lips did nothing to soothe him. Before he had a chance to ask her what she had seen, she spun to face him.

"Go," she ordered. He looked at her incredulously.

"Excuse me?"

"Go. Please leave. Now." There was an urgency in her voice that alarmed him.

"Ziva, what—"

"My father is here."


	9. The Dangers of Politics Part 2

"My father is here."

Ziva watched him process the information, though he kept his face blank. "And that's a problem because…" She could tell he was stalling.

"Gibbs, please do not do this now. Just go, please, do not let him see you." She felt a sinking sensation in her core as she watched her lover gearing up for a fight. Her pleading words kept flowing out of her mouth, as much as she wanted to shoot herself for sounding so vulnerable. "I cannot deal with this right now. Please. Do this, for me." He gave her a long stare, his expression neutral as he weighed his options. Finally he nodded, and she felt an invisible weight lift from her shoulders. "Thank you." Gibbs turned left with speaking, and she knew that her words had hurt him on some level. Was it her weakness? Did he think she was ashamed of being involved with him? Did he finally decide she was not worth the trouble her family wrought in her life?

She forced these doubts from her mind, focusing her attention on the all-too-familiar man quickly approaching. Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva noticed Gibbs vanishing behind a door on the far side of the room. She realized then that she was desperately wanted to be there with him, not here facing her father for the first time since being assigned to NCIS.

"Shalom, Officer David," the Director of Mossad said, immediately setting the stage for their conversation. It was clear to Ziva that it was a talk between superior and inferior, not father to daughter. She was slightly relieved; it was more familiar than acting like a functional family.

"Shalom, Director," she replied, her voice short and impersonal: the voice of a soldier. Her shoulders squared themselves automatically in response to his voice.

"Enjoying the festivities, I see." She could not help but notice the condescension in his voice. "Director Shepard is here as well: are you here as her security detail?"

"Not directly," she replied. "An extra pair of eyes is always helpful, but she invited me as a fellow guest. She recognized my talent for international relations."

"I hope you have stayed away from the Iranian ambassador," Director David said. "He still has not forgotten the small problem of his son-in-law's death."

"I have been judicial in my interactions, sir."

"Good." All of a sudden, the Director's facial expression shifted, and Ziva felt her fingers twitch in anticipation for needing to draw one of her hidden weapons. "How have the Americans been treating you?" His tone was almost warm, and she found the conversation sliding rapidly out of her comfort zone.

"I am well," she responded.

"I can see that," her father said. He paused, looking her up and down. "You look beautiful tonight, _bat_." Her instincts were immediately on edge. She searched for some altruistic goal behind his comment. She could not remember the last time he had complimented her appearance, unless it was related to an undercover operation which required particular attention to physical details.

"Thank you, _aba_," she replied guardedly.

"You remember Michael Rivkin, yes?" And there it was. She was surprised when she felt the sensation of her spirits falling when she realized she had been correct in her assumptions. She had thought she was past the point where she cared what her father thought of her; apparently not.

"I do. We spoke just a few minutes ago."

"He still likes you, Ziva, despite what you did to him all those years ago." Ziva resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Leave it to Michael to blow something out of proportion to gain sympathy.

"_Aba_—"

"It would be wise of you, Officer David, to remember where your priorities, and your loyalties, lie." Director David was back. "Do not dismiss him, or your duties, so quickly." He turned and started to move away. "Good evening, Officer David."

"And you, Director." But he was already gone. Ziva closed her eyes, drained. When she opened them again, she tracked her father's movements intently, remaining motionless. As she watched, he approached Rivkin and embraced him genially. She observed with practiced impartiality as they conversed pleasantly for a few moments, and then left together through the front door. She saw three men leave as well; she recognized them as her father's personal protection detail. Their departure told her that the Director did not expect to return.

She waited a few moments more to be certain they were gone for good, and then Ziva was making her way towards the room she had seen Gibbs enter. Suddenly, she was feeling cramped in the previously comfortable room and she gave silent thanks that no one tried to engage her in conversation as she passed. She reached the door, and reached out a hand to grasp the elegant metal handle. Soundlessly she opened the door and slipped inside. Once she had closed the door again, she leaned against it and took a deep breath.

Her mind was tumultuous, racing from thought to thought so quickly that she herself could barely keep up. Questions about what her father wanted from her were foremost, followed by flashbacks of scenes between her and Rivkin. She burned with anger that he, Rivkin, had succeeded where she had failed so many times; he had managed to find his way into her father's good graces. Confusion was next: she had thought she had long ago abandoned her puzzlement as to why her father sacrificed his paternal duties in favor of the responsibilities of being the Director. But it had returned, unbidden and unwanted… much like her father himself.

She shook her head to clear it, pushing everything below the surface. Ziva studied her surroundings, and was surprised to find herself in a greenhouse. Vegetation was everywhere, and their subtle fragrance soothed her. She could detect the familiar scents of mint and aloe, along with others she could not identify. She meandered down the plant-lined path, taking the time to smell some of them, inventorying their aroma for future reference. About thirty feet from the door, and in the midst of a particularly dense span of foliage, she found a wrought iron bench. She perched on the seat, still slightly on edge from the encounter with her father.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear Gibbs' approach until he brushed against a branch about five feet from her. She did not acknowledge his arrival, hoping that if she did not, perhaps he would not ask questions. But on the other hand, she was also hoping that he _would_ ask questions. She could not, would not, answer whatever questions he had, but it would mean that he did not hate her for the weakness she had shown him.

"Are you all right?" His question was quiet, but full of concern. Again, she both hated and was thankful for it. She looked at him, but the empathy in his eyes made her look away quickly.

"Yes." She did not elaborate.

"What did he want?" Ziva could hear the investigator in him wake up a bit when she did not respond. "Ziva," he continued, "if he threatened—"

"No," she interrupted. "He is not planning anything regarding you or this country. Regardless of how it seems, he values the alliance between Israel and America." She paused. "His words were personal."

"Personal?" he asked. She nodded; it was not a complete lie, at least. He did not contest her statement. She let silence reign for a minute or so, before she spoke again.

"I apologize for how I reacted. It was not fair of me to ask you to leave without an explanation."

"Ziva," Gibbs said before she could continue. "I'm not going to pretend that it didn't bother me. It did. You were obviously in distress, and I wanted nothing more than to be there for you. But I understand why you asked me." He paused. "And if you can't ask me to trust you, than who can you?" Another pause. "We could have hidden us from him, you know. It would have been just two coworkers, attending a social event at the request of their superior—"

"No." Her voice was hard, and left no room for doubt. "It was not about us, Gibbs. I would have asked you to leave even if we were not personally involved." Her eyes darkened. "He still believes you killed Ari. He has not mentioned you in any of our conversations, but I am not naïve enough to believe he would not exact revenge if given the chance."

"Ari was a murderer and a—"

"Traitor. Yes, I am aware of that, as is my father. But my father is very traditional when it comes to his public image. That includes family honor. Ari has tarnished the family's name, but more important, has made my father look like a fool. It is my father's duty to restore the honor of our family. You took that chance from him, and he hates you for it. In a way, you have twice offended him: once by exposing his mole in Hamas as a traitor and then again by denying him the chance to eliminate Ari himself." She paused. "It may not make much sense to Americans, but to Israelis, sometimes family is all we have, and shame can last for generations." She looked away, finding the greens and yellows of foliage around her oddly comforting. "He might not have killed you here, in front of all of these diplomats, but I did not want to remind him that you still live. It would only lead to trouble."

"And what happens if he realizes my report was falsified?" Gibbs asked, voice low. She remained silent for a moment or two. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and resigned.

"He would not hesitate to execute me." She saw his head whip around to look at her. "The fact I am Mossad will only make it easier for him to do so discreetly. He could recall me back to Tel Aviv, and then send me on a suicide mission. It has happened before. Those outside the organization, like the officer's family, honor them as martyrs, but the rest of us know that they were simply screw-ups." She sighed. "

But I think my father would prefer something more personal," she continued, "though my connections with NCIS would make it suspicious. I do not know how he would do it, but my transgressions call for the harshest of punishments." She folded her hands in her lap. She could see the questions in his eyes. It was times like this that she realized how naïve he was, despite his years as a Marine. He had honor, but it was a different kind from what she was used to, to what had been pounded into her since childhood.

"My sins are greater than Ari's," she continued. "Not only did I fulfill a duty that belongs exclusively to my father, but I killed my brother. That alone is a heavy crime. Not only was he my brother, but he was also my father's only heir, his only son. In our religion, our heritage is matrilineal: titles and honor are passed down from the mother. But in the rest of our world, we have been so greatly influenced by Western society that riches and power are passed from father to son. I took away my father's only chance to pass on his legacy in a traditional way. It all adds up to be too much. I would be a traitor to my family, if my father ever found out. And I would be dealt with swiftly."

Gibbs shifted in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. "So what you're telling me," he said, "is that you saved my life, knowing you were signing your own death warrant." He shook his head. "You didn't know I was going to lie on the report. You knew you were going to die." She reached out and took his hand gently. He turned to face her, and found her gazing at him with startling intensity.

"I would do the same thing, if given the chance to do it over," she said. "I am glad I did it, Jethro. Now more than ever." As Ziva watched, his face creased into a smile. She frowned in confusion. "What?" she asked, curious as to what had caused the change in his mood. Not that she was complaining; she always liked to see his eyes twinkle like that. He shifted again, so that his back was leaning against the iron bench.

"That's the first time you've called me Jethro," he answered, his smile growing.

"Oh," she said, surprised at the revelation. She had not even realized she had said it. "Does it bother you?" she asked. Warmth spread through her when he gave her hand a squeeze.

"No, it doesn't," he said. "Not at all."


	10. Pressures

The evening finally ended and they accompanied Director Shepard back to the Navy Yard. Once there, Gibbs offered Ziva a ride home, which she accepted. But instead of driving to her apartment, he went directly to his house. They had spent the night in each other's arms, a scene that was repeated often in the following weeks, and did not cease until the team became involved with the Hoffman serial murder case.

Ziva became Gina, and as the undercover operation dragged on, the Mossad officer had drawn away from him. Nights were spent pulling surveillance as she trolled the local bars, hoping to catch the attention of their serial killer. Gibbs knew pretending to be cheating on her Marine husband bothered Ziva on a personal… it was too personal. Even off the clock, they had ceased to spend time together, just in case the suspect decided to follow her home.

Gibbs was now sitting in the driver's seat of his sedan, with McGee in the passenger seat, tailing Ziva's car as she drove off with their suspect. Gibbs could feel that something was wrong. His gut told him that this was their guy, though they had nothing concrete on him. This was the reason Ziva was with the monster currently; so Dinozzo could search his house for possible evidence. Gibbs didn't have enough control over the operation, which was barely afloat on a wing and a prayer. They didn't have enough information, not enough research was done, but the rapid succession of victims had spurred them to get the job done quickly.

Gibbs was finding it difficult to not call off the mission now, so instead attempted to focus on the idea of it all being over, hopefully in a matter of days. Soon, things would be back to normal; soon, he could be with Ziva again. The past few weeks had forced him to realize just how attached he had become to the Israeli.

He had gotten little sleep, often times working on his boat late into the night. He told himself it was simply his concern for Ziva, but he knew that it was really the lack of her warm form in the bed next to him that kept him awake. He knew that she was bothered by the estrangement as well—sometimes, when there was no one around to see, he would catch her looking at him with an intense longing in her eyes that would severely test his self-control.

But the twisting in his gut told him, things were finally coming to a head. Shaking his reverie off, he realized they were falling farther behind Ziva's car, despite the fact that Ziva was obeying all the traffic laws. Tony's call came quickly—too quickly.

"Call Ziva, give the signal," he ordered McGee. Gibbs gunned the engine as the younger agent called. When Ziva did not pull over right away, he knew something was wrong. Panic began to seep into his mind with icy fingers, but he pushed it away. He knew that it would not help anyone, especially Ziva, if he lost his cool now.

They followed the GPS directions until they had a visual on Ziva's car. The doors were left wide open, and when McGee held up Ziva's phone, the Marine was filled with trepidation. He glanced at their location: they were surrounded by empty stone warehouses, any of which could be hiding the Mossad officer. He couldn't help but notice that it was an ideal place to hide a body. He immediately reminded himself that Ziva could snap a perp's neck in the blink of an eye.

All rational thought left him when a gunshot rang out among the stone buildings. He sprinted in the direction it originated from. But before he even reached the warehouse, five more shots were fired, and Gibbs almost felt his heart stop.

"ZIVA!" he bellowed, racing into the warehouse. He saw the perp roll off of Ziva, who was lying motionless on the stone floor. Desperation flooded his system, and he picked up his speed. "Ziva!" Relief blossomed when he saw her move, and she was getting to her feet just as he reached her. He helped her up, barely sparing a glance for the bleeding man on the ground. He reached out and cupped her cheek. "You all right?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Her eyes danced across his face, down to Hoffman, then around the warehouse. He knew her senses were on overdrive, and he saw the beginning stages of shock in her lax expression. Her white blouse was smeared with blood, but he was relieved to see that it didn't seem to be her own. Her hair hung over one side of her grime-streaked face. She was trembling, and though she seemed to barely hear him, she nodded in answer to his query.

He crouched down to make sure Hoffman was dead. Though Gibbs could immediately see that the man was deceased, he remained in his position for a few moments, both to gather his own thoughts and to allow Ziva to do the same. He wanted nothing more than to embrace her tightly and take her home—the Israeli was obviously shaken up by the incident.

Soon Ducky had arrived, and to Gibbs' approval, ignored the corpse in favor of tending to Ziva. When the medical examiner brushed back her hair to reveal a bloody gash on her temple, Gibbs felt a wave of concern hit him. Ducky identified the gash as a bullet graze, and the Marine tried desperately not to think of how close he had come to losing her.

Aside from occasionally jerking away from Ducky's touch as he cleaned her wound and assertions that she was not hurt, she seemed detached from her surroundings. Her eyes would glaze over periodically until something snapped her out of it, and she assured him that Hoffman had not hurt her. He ignored her, stepping closer and spoke to her in a low voice.

"I need your clothes," he said, handing her a set of NCIS overalls. "Get changed, get an X-ray, go home." He stopped slightly so that he was looking directly into her eyes. "I do not need to see you again today." Her head angled slowly to the left, as if silently asking if he were serious. He did not respond, and she disappeared to get changed.

Later that afternoon, Gibbs was in the elevator, coffee in hand, thinking about calling Ziva to check in on her. The doors opened and he walked towards his desk. As he approached, anger flared within him when he discovered that he did not need to call her. For there she was, sitting at her desk and obviously not all right.

"I told you to go home," he said.

"My statement is on your desk," she said, ignoring him. She proceeded to tell him she intended to return to the bar she had met Hoffman in, to help identify the last victim. Once McGee agreed to print out a photo, she looked at Gibbs, and he knew she was daring him to say something against it. But then it changed into something he couldn't read. After another moment, he turned away.

"Go with her, Dinozzo."

Tony seemed inordinarily tender towards her. He too must know that this was bothering his partner more than had been expected. Gibbs was uninterested in hearing his senior field agent being comforting to Ziva when he himself could not be, and so detached himself from the conversation. Unfortunately, it meant that he did not have time to warn the Italian before the younger man reached out to muss her dark locks. In an instant, she reacted, grabbing his wrist and slamming it to the desk.

Dinozzo remained calm, softly explaining his intentions. Ziva seemed apologetic, but Gibbs knew that she did not really mean it. Any other time, she would have been chewing her partner out for not knowing to leave her alone when she was on edge.

McGee finished printing out the photo, which Tony accepted as Ziva gathered her coat.

And then they were gone.

Gibbs looked into the darkened morgue, not surprised to find Ziva looking down at Andrew Hoffman's corpse. Her eyes had glazed over, and he knew she was reliving the scene in the warehouse.

"You gotta stop staring at this one, Ziva," he said. He wanted to kick himself for sounding so unfeeling. Why could he not comfort her here, in an empty morgue, where no one would hear his words? The answer presented itself to him quickly; if he could not remain detached, then how would she be able to do so? But then, perhaps being cold and detached was not what she needed. Tony, despite his initial tenderness, had reverted back to his juvenile behavior, teasing her at every turn about Michael Locke and Andrew Hoffman. Gibbs had come close to beating the hell out him several times when he saw the strain in Ziva's demeanor.

"I should have moved faster," she told him. Her reaction was common; going through the scene again and again, picking everything apart. In his experience, judging in hindsight only ever led to personal pain.

"You would've if you could've," he reassured her. She ignored him.

"He almost killed me." Her tone was self-deprecating, which did not surprise him. She was the daughter of Mossad Director David, and a skilled assassin, and she had come too close to death. She had come too close to the edge, and now she was kicking herself for it.

But something about her confession did not sit right with him. She was stiff, a quality she did not usually assume when she was baring her soul to him. She had tried to barge past him, though he had not let her pass. And now her tone was short and clipped, as if she were telling him what he needed to hear in order to get him off her back. He was familiar with the tactic, as he had used it often enough himself.

She tried to pass him again when he questioned her about Locke, but again he stood his ground. Her reaction was guarded, and he knew he was making her feel trapped, between the questions and shadowed morgue. But he needed to hear the truth about Dinozzo's teasings. Her answer was evasive, and he realized that she wasn't going to give him anything.

"You gotta trust your judgement, Ziva," he said finally. "The moment you don't, there won't be an almost."

Ziva reached into her desk drawer and pulled out her service weapon. She marched over and placed it on Gibbs' desk with a thud. Gibbs looked at it, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu. She had given her gun to him like this once before, when the Director had been abducted and the Mossad officer had doubted her place at NCIS. As if sensing the source of his well-hidden distress, she continued. "Michael Locke's print is on the barrel," she explained. Distress flared through him at her explanation.

Why would his print be on the barrel? She never allowed anyone to touch her weapons. The only time he himself had done so, it had been when… His stomach plummeted. If Locke's print was on her gun, they must have been in an intimate setting. He had hoped that the _Sea of Love_ reference from Dinozzo earlier had simply been the senior agent being the ass he usually was. But this confirmed it, and the revelation felt like a bullet to his heart.

He took the proffered gun and passed it on to Tony, who took it without a word. Gibbs' thoughts began to race. Ziva refused to look him in the eye, which only confirmed her guilt. His assumptions, it seemed, had been correct. He turned away, not caring if his hurt came across as anger. He gazed at the surveillance footage up on the plasma, not really seeing what it had to offer. His sadness deepened when he heard her move away without saying anything more.

One part of his mind told Gibbs was an idiot, and to get over himself. She was obviously hurting, and needed his help. Even the fact that the incident had affected her at all must be throwing her for a loop. He should be the one to comfort her, to be there for her. But the other part of him coldly pointed out that she had already made her bed—and he wasn't in it. She had chosen who to go to for comfort, and it hadn't been him. It had been a relative stranger who had just become the prime suspect in the Hoffman-accomplice case. It stung that she could not confide in him—surely he would be more sympathetic to her problems than some regular Joe Shmoe from a bar. But she had made her choices.

And if he wasn't a part of them, then so be it.


	11. Comfort

As the case dragged on with the search of the copycat, Gibbs noticed Ziva's appearance getting worse and worse. Her normally luminous skin was pale and dull, and the dark circles under her eyes had gotten darker and darker. She looked exhausted, and he guessed that she was not following any of the doctor's orders, if she had gone to see one at all. But he still kept his distance.

He was a little surprised that he cared so much about her betrayal. They had never really defined what they shared, or expressed their expectations. But her words over the past few months had suggested that she had felt the same for him as he did for her. And the shock of realizing what she had done with Locke lingered, eating away at him as the days passed.

Soon Locke was cleared (much to Gibbs' disappointment—he would have liked nothing more than to throw the guy in jail). The true copycat had been arrested and charged with the death of his wife. A few days passed, and Ziva seemed to have improved. She had resumed some of the easy interaction with Dinozzo, and her haggard look had disappeared. But Gibbs knew the Israeli well enough to know that she was still hurting. He wasn't surprised the others didn't notice; the signs were nearly imperceptible.

Her eyes refused to shine the way they had before the undercover operation, and when she smiled, it never reached her eyes. Her relaxed postures were all forced; there was an underlying tension to all her movements, and he recognized it as Ziva being coiled like a spring, waiting to explode into motion at the slightest provocation. Secretly he was glad for all these signs—it showed that she was bothered by the state of their relationship as well. He didn't say anything to her other than the necessary orders relevant to her work.

As the days dragged on though, he found himself it increasingly more difficult for him to function properly. He had slept barely two hours a night for the past three days, and even a steady supply of coffee wasn't enough to keep his crabbiness at bay. Abby had kept her reports uncharacteristically brief, knowing better than to try his patience. He was getting tired of it all, but there was only one way to fix it, and he didn't know if he was strong enough for it.

Later that night, he found himself on his porch, much like he had been that night. His pride told him to leave, to stay strong, but his heart knew he was exactly where he should be. He reached out to knock, and predictably, it opened before he could. Unlike that first night though, she was presently gripping a gun in her hand.

Her eyes were dark, but he could not see anything deeper—her walls, the ones he had worked so hard to get past, had been rebuilt. Neither spoke for several moments, nor did they break eye contact.

"Ziva." Her name passed his lips without his bidding or control, his voice husky with emotion. Had it been anyone else, he would have hated showing his vulnerability so clearly, but he knew that with Ziva, he could expect nothing else.

She remained silent, but stood aside. He accepted the wordless invitation, moving past her to enter her home. The familiar combination of flowers and spices surrounded him, and he took comfort from them. He turned to face her as she locked the door behind him. She looked at him, but did not move from her position by the door, and did not put her gun down. A flash of hurt seared through him as he realized that she no longer felt she could trust him. But then he felt the burn of injustice as he reminded himself the _she_ had been the one who betrayed his trust by sleeping with Locke. Despite his conflicting emotions, he was the first to speak.

"Why did you get romantically involved with the suspect?" he asked, getting straight to the point. He expected her to not answer him, to dodge him like she had done the entire case.

"I didn't," she said. Her accented answer was simple, but elicited nothing but confusion from him.

"His print was on your gun," he reminded her, his voice harder than before. "There is only one setting you ever let me touch your firearm, and that situation can't be classified than romantic."

"We slept together."More confusion.

"Ziva—"

"You are assuming that we had sex," she interrupted. Her words rendered him silent. "We did not."

"You telling me you went to bed with him _not _intending to have sex?"

"I intended to. I was going to." Her bluntness, he knew, was more than a desire to be honest with him: she had stopped fighting him. No holds were barred, and she was leaving him to make the decision to make or break what they shared. The realization was daunting to Gibbs. This was not how he had envisioned this encounter going. "We got as far as the bed,"" she continued. "But I could not do it. Even drunk, I could not do it."

"Why not?"

"Because every moment I was with him, I could only think of how much I wanted to be with you." Hope flared within him at her words.

"Why did you go to him in the first place? Why not come to me?"

"You not want me there."

"I said I didn't need to see you, Ziva. At work."

"You told me to go home."

"You needed rest."

"I needed _you_, Jethro." Silence ensued when Gibbs had no words to respond with. "I needed to be with you, to focus on someone who had never doubted me, never betrayed me. And you sent me away." She paused, looking away. Her stance was stiff, and a finger tapped nervously against her gun barrel. "I was upset. I needed human contact that you were unwilling to give me. So I went to Locke. He understood my need for comfort. But when the time came, we both knew it was wrong. I was too drunk to drive, and it was late, so he offered me a place to sleep.

"His print is on my gun because I pulled it on him in the middle of the night. He had been reaching over to get his reading glasses, but I had thought he was trying to steal my weapon. He pushed it out of his face with his finger." She looked at him. "It was not because he undressed me, as you had assumed."

All of a sudden, Gibbs was relieved. He wanted to rush over and embrace her but the vicious onslaught of guilt prevented him from doing so. His eyes closed as he realized how out of proportion he had blown things. Dinozzo's obsession with what may or may not have happened between Ziva and Locke had upset him enough that he had jumped to conclusions.

He had asked directly, yes, but he should have known not to take her refusal to answer as an admittance of guilt. At least, not the guilt he had been looking for. There was always something deeper, something he hadn't considered, when it came to Ziva's emotions. Ziva never took things at face value, he knew that.

"Why did it bother you so much?" he asked, knowing he was finally asking the right question. "You've killed before, and this was self-defense." Ziva looked away again with a shake of her head.

"It is foolish," she said. The guarded look in her eye told him he was quickly approaching a wall. The question now was if he still had what it took to get through to her.

"Emotion isn't foolish, Ziva." His tone was tender. He stepped toward her, hoping that closing the physical distance between them would help shorten the distance between them emotionally. "You had a traumatic experience, and I know you are upset over more than just needing to move sooner." He took another step. "There is more to it than that." He took another step, but this time, Ziva moved back. He froze, but recognized the movement as an indication that his words had struck a chord in her. He was getting somewhere. "Are you going to shoot me?" he asked before making his next move.

She shook her head no, and placed her gun on the small table next to the door. It was still within her reach, but it was enough for Gibbs. He stepped forward once more. "I was selfish," he continued, "and I didn't see it. But I see it now, and I am here for you like I should have been right from the start." He stepped forward, and she stepped away again, but her back hit the wall behind her, cutting off her escape. He took advantage of it, and covered the rest of the distance until he was mere inches from her. "I'm not going anywhere." His words were almost a whisper, but were filled with a burning intensity.

She looked up into his eyes, but still did not speak. Her brown eyes moved away quickly, glancing around the room, and Gibbs knew his proximity was bothering her. So when she placed both hands on his chest to gently but firmly push him away, he let her. He had her attention, and he had seen her walls start to fall just a little—enough for her to talk to him.

His observations were confirmed to be true when her hands did not immediately pull away after she moved him. Instead her delicate fingers seemed to melt against him for a moment, as if wanting to become a part of him. Gibbs reveled in the contact; it was the first time they had touched in the past three weeks. It was only then that Ziva recoiled, snatching her hands away. He didn't take it personally. She needed space in order to start talking, and he respected that. She looked at her feet, shaking her head.

"I do not know where to start," she told him, her voice quiet.

"Start at the surface," he offered. "Start with what's foremost in your mind, and the rest'll follow." He watched as she processed his words. She nodded slowly. Keeping her gaze to her right, thus avoiding his gaze, she spoke.

"Hoffman was… I have not shot anyone since Ari. I have killed since coming to NCIS, but this was the first time I have used my gun to do so." Her voice was flat. "I have never been troubled by taking a life, Gibbs. I keep trying to figure out why I cared so much. He was a monster, and you are right, it was self-defense. I thought maybe I had done something wrong in the midst of the fight. So I kept going over what happened in my head, hoping to find something that would help me understand why I could not let it go." She paused. "It was the second night after the incident that I realized what it was. I had a dream, and I was back in the warehouse, with Hoffman holding a gun on me. The same things happen, but when I finally shoot Hoffman and he falls on top of me—suddenly the face I am staring into is my brother's.

"And then," she continues, "at work, everyone kept telling me that they were glad I took a man's life. It became all about the fact that I killed him. And when I told Michael I was Mossad, he immediately jumped to the idea that I was an assassin. A product of the movie industry, no doubt. But then suddenly it seems like no one expected anything more of me. That I am, and always will be, a killer." She took a deep breath. "I left so much of my life behind when I came to NCIS, but the label I had been running from the most refuses to be forgotten." She looked at him, finally.

"When Eschel's partner, the Iranian, was taken into custody, I had thought I had finally risen above it. I had been so proud to be able to say I was more than just a killer. It was something I never thought I would be able to do. Most times, it is the other way around. Mossad officers resist the killing at first, but it slowly consumes them until there is nothing left but cold hard violence."

"You were different," he said.

"I do not know why. Now I do, but I did not then." She looked him straight in the eye. "I believe that it was you who pulled me out of that cycle, Gibbs. Looking back, I know that after Ari's death I would have spiraled even quicker into that abyss, but you let me in. You let me join the team and taught me how to investigate. You showed me that there was something other than violence." Her eyes left his again. "But you turned your back on me, after Hoffman. You did not want to see me. I thought you hated me for killing again, after you had put so much time and effort into training me as an investigator."

"We are required to carry guns on the job, Ziva," he said. "We're meant to use them if necessary."

"You and I both know you have your own code Gibbs. We do not know a rule until we break it Gibbs, and the way you acted… You were punishing me, both after Hoffman and with the incident with Michael." A solitary tear traced down her cheek, and Gibbs felt his insides twist in response. "You saw me as a killer. A murderer. Only you know just how much of a killer I am, but you've never treated me like one. Until now."

Gibbs couldn't restrain himself any longer at the sight of her distress; the distress he had been the cause of. He wrapped her in strong arms and pulled her to him. She was stiff at first at the contact, but just like before she melted into him, wrapping her arms around him. He stroked her hair soothingly, and she tightened her grip. He was now all too aware of how wrong their prolonged separation had been, for the both of them.

"Not a killer, Ziver," he said, not releasing his hold her. "Not a murderer. You're more than that."

"I do not want to talk anymore," she murmured into his chest.

"Okay," he responded. "It's okay." He rested his head against hers. "We're okay."


	12. Farewells

Gibbs sighed, rolling his neck as he sat at his desk and gazed out over the empty bullpen. The past few days had passed in a blur, but their effects still lingered. Jenny was still dead, lying on a cold metal table down in the morgue. Tony was still hurting, plagued with guilt and regret. Ziva was still a rock, impassive and strong, acting as a support for her partner. Gibbs knew that she was just as affected as he himself was, and he fully expected that they would spend the night comforting each other and reminiscing about their friend.

McGee seemed a bit out of place as his teammates mourned. He had never had as much contact with the Director as the others, but he had felt the loss all the same. The whole agency felt the loss, the confusion over Jenny's death. Gibbs and his team had hidden the true nature of her death from everyone, even the new Director. They had fed them and the media a story about a gas leak in the Shepard family home, causing an explosion that killed the Director.

Most of the agency was still in mourning, and his team was no exception. Tony had long disappeared, not telling anyone where he was going. However, Ziva had guessed his destination, following him a short time later. Gibbs let her go, knowing that it was something she needed to do, despite his desire to keep her close. McGee had gone down to Abby's lab to comfort the Goth, who was shocked at the death of yet another of their NCIS family. Gibbs remembered a time when she had equated Jen and himself to the mother and father of their dysfunctional family.

Shutting off his computer, Gibbs gathered up his belongings and stood. He made his way toward the elevator, intent on getting home and waiting for Ziva to join him. They needed each other tonight, to remember the extraordinary woman who had unwittingly brought them together.

He was sanding his boat several hours later when Ziva finally arrived. He looked up as she stepped silently down the wooden steps. She stopped at the bottom, facing him. Her posture was stiff, guarded, but her eyes were filled with sadness. Without a word he set aside the tool in his hand. She walked towards and into his waiting arms. They stayed that way for several minutes, each of them both giving and receiving comfort.

"How's Tony?" he asked finally, not releasing his hold on her.

"He will recover," she replied. "He will not ever fully heal, not from this. But he will recover." Gibbs had assumed as much, but it still surprised him how perceptive she was.

"What about you?" he asked. She pulled back slightly with a mirthless smile.

"I am not sharing first," she said. "You knew her before I did, and I know you still cared for her." He sighed, and disengaged from their embrace. He moved to sit under the stairs, pulling her over to join him. Soon he was leaning against the wall and she on him. The resulting space insulated them from the rest of the world, and for a short time, it was just the two of them.

"What are you feeling?" Ziva asked, her voice curious as she traced the outline of his hand with a slender finger.

"Guilt. Anger. Grief." He didn't bother to hide his emotions from her. They were past all that.

"Why?"

"Guilt, because I should have been there. I should have protected her. She may have become my boss, but she was still my partner. And she died to protect me. She knew they would go after me next, so she did all she could to stop them." Ziva nodded in understanding, but remained silent to give him a chance to continue. "I'm angry because she lied to me. She kept her medical condition from me, and I could have helped her. She didn't have to die like that; like she didn't have any other way out. She also ordered you to take the day off. She was protecting you from the situation, but she did it knowing what state she would be leaving you in when you found her." He sighed. "And grief, because despite all that, I miss her. And she's not coming back."

"I understand why she did it." Ziva's tone was matter-of-fact.

"What?"

"She was protecting you, Jethro. I would not hesitate to do the same." She shifted, wrapping her arms around him. "And she went down fighting. If I had a choice between that or wasting away to some disease, counting down the days as my body shut down…" Her voice trailed off.

"Really? You wouldn't want to have a chance to prepare? Or to say good bye to your friends and family? To get some of your bucket list done?"

"What is a bucket list?" she asked.

"The list of things you want to do before you die."

"Oh. No. We are trained to think in the here and now. Only those with families make arrangements for when they die. The rest of us are always ready for the possibility of dying on a mission. It is foolish to act otherwise. Even now, the idea of growing old seems... a luxury."

Gibbs could understand it, even if he could not exercise such a lifestyle. After Shannon and Kelly, his deepest desire was to grow old with Shannon and watch Kelly mature and start her own family. After they died, he wanted to join them, but he slowly recovered from that state of mind. And now, after being with Ziva, he found himself once again looking to the future.

"Jenny vouched for you, you know," he said. Ziva nodded into his chest. "She said something happened in Cairo." At that, the dark-haired beauty raised her head to look at him.

"I am surprised she mentioned that," she said, laying her head back down after a moment.

"You want to tell me?"

"Not much to tell."

"She said you saved her life."

"I may have." She paused, and then her tone turned dark. "They say that once you save someone's life, you are forever responsible for keeping them safe. I do not know if that is true, but in this case, I think it may apply. I was assigned to protect her."

She retreated from her position on top of him. She sat up, running a hand through her thick hair. He straightened as well, rubbing a hand down her back in comforting motions. "I knew something was wrong," she said. "My instincts were telling me something was off, and I ignored it. It was at Tony's encouragement, but ultimately, it is my fault that we did not pursue her in time. I did not protect her, and it was my one job in LA. I should know better… Tony did not, but I did. And I still ignored it in favor of relaxation. And now Jenny is dead." Gibbs continued to rub circles on her back.

"She ordered you to leave, Ziva. She knew exactly what she was doing. You followed orders from your Director."

"She was more than a Director to me too," Ziva said. "And I know that she manipulated us, but I should have known better." She relaxed into his touch, returning to lie against his chest once more.

"We both should have known better," Gibbs said, draping an arm around Ziva's shoulders. "But Jenny made her decisions, knowing full well what she was doing. It was what she wanted."

"I am going to miss her."

"Me too, Ziver," he said. "Me too."

Gibbs led the way into Jen's—no. Into Director Leon Vance's office. His team filed in behind him, all clad in black from the funeral they had just been to. All three of them were withdrawn, subdued. Vance, on the other, looked like he considered it just another day in the office. As soon as they were all congregated in front of his desk, the new Director began to speak. His first words made Gibbs' heart lurch painfully.

"Officer David. The liaison position with NCIS has been terminated." Gibbs' eyes shot to Mossad agent. Her shock was evident, her eyes dancing back and forth between Vance and Gibbs. "You're going home." Alarm shot through Gibbs as he saw the lost look in her eyes. Suddenly, the loss he had felt for Jenny was eclipsed by the fear that he was losing someone else just as permanently. He barely heard the rest of Vance's words as he disbanded the rest of his team. "Agent Gibbs," he said. "Meet your new team."

Ziva hefted her bag onto her soldier as she waited in the hangar to board her plane. Gibbs knew she was nervous, grief-stricken, and also in the process of detaching herself from the situation. She had been distant last night, even as they held each other, as if she was barely able to process the situation. The survival tactic was easily recognizable to Gibbs. But his next words managed to yield a reaction from her.

"Your father doesn't know," he said, in whisper. Her head whipped around to face him. He looked into her eyes, and found the slightest relief at his revelation. The Marine remembered how he had acquired the information.

He hadn't even realized the Director had finished speaking until Ziva finally met his gaze for a split second before turning to leave. Her two teammates had quickly followed her, nearly overcome with the shock of the blow they had been dealt. Somehow, Gibbs had had the presence of mind to hesitate before turning back to Vance. When he opened his mouth, the voice that issued forth was low, but strong and intense.

"Who terminated the liaison position, Leon?" he asked. "You, or Mossad?" Vance stared at him for a moment, as if debating whether or not he should answer.

"I did," he said finally. He had clearly expected Gibbs to bite his head off. However, Gibbs merely nodded, then turned and left. As he passed through the door, he nodded towards Cynthia, who was also dressed in the all-too-familiar black of mourning. He managed to somehow disguise his relief at Vance's relief. As soon as his mind had registered the termination of Ziva's position, he had flashed back to the conversation they had months ago. _He would recall me back to Israel, and then send me on a suicide mission._ Suddenly, he had been terrified that her father had finally discovered Gibbs' deception. But Vance had simply sent her back. He and Ziva would be separated by an ocean, but at least she would be safe.

"I will fix this, Ziva," he said, stepping forward. "I promi—" He was silenced by a finger on his lips.

"Please, Jethro," she had said. "I have trusted you since the day we met, because you have never lied to me." She withdrew her hand. "Please do not start now by making promises you cannot keep." She paused. And then she shook his hand cordially; the Marine's keen eyes noticed two men standing next to the small prop chop that would take her to Israel. Both had their eyes on them. He returned the handshake. "Goodbye, Agents Gibbs." And then she was gone, and he was watching the plane disappear into the sky.

"I promise, Ziva."


	13. Reunited

Gibbs fumed silently. It had been four months since his team had been disbanded, and his life turned upside down. The replacement team was barely functional, with Langer doing nothing but torment his teammates, Lee timid as a mouse, and Keating barely able to get a word in around his stutters. Individually, only Lee and Keating were able to be productive, but throw the three of them together, and all he had was one huge mess. Gibbs' displeasure at his new team was perpetually evident, which he suspected only made them more nervous, but he didn't care. He barely slept, and his mind was always filled with thoughts of Ziva.

Every so often Tony would make an appearance in his concerns, being at sea on the U.S.S. Reagan, but Ziva was his primary focus. She had managed to call several times, but the brief conversations always left him unsatisfied. Her last call had been over a month ago. Now he didn't know where she was or what she was doing. The reason he knew she was still alive was because his gut would tell him otherwise had something happened. Late at night, he would picture her enjoying her time in her home country, laying on sun warmed beaches, or curled up reading a book in her home with the windows open, wind gently rustling her hair.

But he knew that it was unlikely she would be able to enjoy Israel in such a way. Conflict had been building around Gaza, and he wondered if she was in the middle of it. But for all he knew, she wasn't even in Israel anymore; perhaps sent undercover in Russia, or pulling a hit in some terrorist-ridden country. His heart always pained him when he thought of the last option. She had grown beyond the role of an assassin in her time at NCIS, and the thought of what the reversion would do to her spirit plagued him. He wondered who he would meet when he saw her again. Would she still be Ziva? Or would she be unrecognizable?

The morning started just as the last one had. He stalked into the squad room, making them all jump into action. He asked for the Oman threat report, only to have it spill onto the floor as Lee tried to pry it from Langer's fingers. Luckily, a call came in and they were off to a crime scene. He had thought it might provide a reprieve, before he remembered that his "B-team", as Ducky called them, were no better in the field. After they had stumbled through the crime scene, he had sought normalcy in Abby's lab, only to have her verbally chastise him for not getting his team back together, and scrutinizing his choice to take the stairs.

She was only half right when she said it was because being in the elevator reminded him of people he would rather forget. It did make him remember, but it wasn't specific to the elevator and he certainly didn't want to forget. Staying still too long in any setting gave his mind time to think of what he had lost, of Ziva's smile and her lilting accent. But his memories were all he had at the moment, and he wasn't about to give them up. It was just too dangerous to succumb to his memories at the Navy Yard, where anyone could see.

As he entered the bullpen once more, Keating had actually managed to find a lead in the case. The victim's buddy was linked to a bombing in Morocco overnight. Immediately, his gut knew something was up. It was too much of a coincidence. Suddenly, he knew that this was bigger than any of them had expected. Then Keating pulled up the raw feed of the bomb site from ZNN.

The scene was chaotic, with a cavernous hole where the night club had been, with charred remnants of wood littering the streets. Keatings gave the casualty count just the image of paramedics pushing a stretcher caught Gibbs' attention. His gut twisted as the prone form on the gurney looked all too familiar. He paused the screen when the camera zoomed in on the figure's face, and Gibbs' gazed locked on the features of the woman who had been haunting his every waking and sleeping thought for the past for months. Lee was the first to voice her name.

"Ziva."

His heart plummeted. For several moments, the image filled his mind, and he could think of nothing else. The angle of the camera gave him visual of only half her face, but what was visible was streaked with soot and blood. The blood shocked him. It stood out prominently on her tan skin, slick against her temple. He could only imagine what injuries the camera failed to show. He then pushed his fear from his mind.

He ordered his agents into action, dialing the one number he had for Ziva. She usually was the one to call him, citing that calling her could be dangerous. But all thoughts of caution had vanished when he had seen the feed, and he dialed the number in his call log. To his despair, it didn't even ring, with an automated voice telling him that the number had been disconnected. Barking out further orders, he made his way to the sub-basement.

He had seen McGee several times since the disbanding of the team, but never when McGee was with his subordinates. The drastic contrast was surprising, and actually made Gibbs respect the younger man slightly more. He didn't beat around the bush, getting straight to the point and asking if he had had contact with Ziva. He wasn't surprised at the answer. Of all the people on the team, McGee was the safest person to email. No doubt the MIT graduate had shown her ways to make her email account untraceable, to limit the chances of their communication getting her in trouble. Unfortunately, their email communication had ceased three weeks ago.

Then his phone rang, and the words on the other end made Gibbs' heart soar. "Put her on," he said, desperately trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. A few minutes of clicks ensued as the call was redirected, and then, "Ziva?"

"Gibbs—"

"Are you okay?" he interrupted, not caring if his concern could be heard.

"You heard?" Her tone told him that she was not the only one listening to the conversation. He responded immediately, putting his emotions back on a leash. He responded in a similar wry tone. He asked about the case, and the information she gave him told him is assumptions earlier had been correct; it was bigger than he had originally thought. She gave him the information she had, and the conversation died down.

"We miss you, Ziver." He heard her pick up the handset.

"I miss you too. All of you. Even, ah… even Tony." He smiled. She had remembered. The night before she had left for Israel, Ziva had told him that her father already suspected that she was sleeping with Tony. It would be safer to use that to their advantage.

"Listen, Jethro," she had said, "if I ever talk about Tony in a way that makes you jealous—" She gave him a sultry smile, "I am really talking about you."

Back in the present, Gibbs smiled. "Gotta go."

"Take care, Gibbs." Her voice seemed sad, even over the phone. Gibbs wished he could fly out to Israel to comfort her, but he knew that the only way he could get her back to him safely, for good, was if he stayed at NCIS and did something he never, ever liked to do.

He had to play politics.

Two hours later and Gibbs could barely contain his rage. He had been used, and hadn't been able to spot it. He should have. If he had realized it sooner, he could have known what to be on the lookout for, and he could have found the mole. And then Ziva would have been home, with him, and she wouldn't have been in that club. He could barely think, between his frustration and his concern for Ziva. She had sounded so forlorn during their conversation; he knew that she was not happy being in her home country. He needed to get her home, and quick, before he lost her for good. And now the Marine knew exactly how to do so. He needed to solve this case, and by doing so, determine which of his new team members was a mole.

A week later, and Gibbs could barely breathe from anticipation as he stood in the bullpen. Langer was dead, confirmed to be the mole they had been looking for. Michelle Lee was packing up her desk, ready to move back to the legal department. The past few days had been hard on her, he knew. She had never fired her weapon before, and she had been the one to kill Langer. It had been in self-defense, but Gibbs knew that it didn't always matter when it came to the guilt that came with taking a life.

He gave her a few words of encouragement before bidding her farewell, hoping he didn't seem too eager. He turned to look at Abby and McGee when they approached as Michelle left to wait for the elevator.

"This is so exciting!" Abby said, her arm linked with McGee's. They came to a stop next to Tony's desk, and Gibbs watched as they spoke casually, as if nothing had changed in the last four months. Then he heard the elevator doors open, and the voice that followed Lee's made Gibbs' head whip around at the sound.

"Michelle," Ziva said, sounding surprised to see the other agent. "Hi." Her voice was light and clear, more upbeat than she had sounded over the phone. Gibbs felt a weight lift from his shoulders, but he refrained from reacting. "It's good to be back," he heard her say. And then she turned the corner, and he was able to lay eyes on her for the first time in four months.

Immediately her eyes found his, and she started to make a beeline toward him, but was intercepted by Abby's embrace. The Goth wrapped the Israeli in a tight hug with a squeal of excitement, and as she returned the hug, Ziva looked over the scientist's shoulder to look at Gibbs. And then McGee claimed his hug, giving Gibbs to take in Ziva's appearance.

Her skin was slightly darker than it had been before she left, and her hair was pulled back tightly, a surprise after seeing her with it loose and flowing for so long. Her hairstyle made it easy to see the effects of the explosion in Morocco. A scar crossed her right eyebrow, and the sight of it would have made him angry had he not been so elated to simply be seeing her again. Before he had a chance to notice anything else, it was his turn.

He put his arms around her, wrapping her in a big bear hug. It was not at all romantic, but it allowed for the greatest amount of contact such a hug could yield. She clutched him tightly, and he could almost feel the tension trickle away as he held her. He looked over her shoulder at Agent Lee as she was stepping into the elevator. With the slightest of nods, he silently thanked her, though he knew she didn't fully understand how grateful he was. By helping find the mole, and by returning to the legal department, she had made it possible for Ziva, his love, to come home.

Gibbs stood in his living room impatiently. He and Ziva had managed to pull apart after their embrace, and then act normally until they all took an early afternoon to catch up. They had gone out to lunch, and Gibbs was both disappointed and grateful that Abby and McGee had flanked Ziva at the table they were led to. He knew that as much as he hated to be separated from her even by just a table, he would have been unable to keep his hands off her had they been able to sit next to each other. They both had laughed and conversed with Abby and McGee, enjoying the near-normal atmosphere that was created. Periodically throughout the meal though, he would catch Ziva looking at him with a subtle longing in her eyes. One time he caught her gaze, he sent her a lightning-quick wink, which elicited a small smile from the Mossad officer.

They had all gone their separate ways after their meal. Abby beat Gibbs to the task of offering Ziva a ride to her apartment, the lease of which had not yet expired. She accepted the ride, and though he saw the disappointment in her eyes, he knew that it was necessary in order to not make the others curious.

And so he was now waiting, too impatient to sit. He had worked on his boat for a while, but couldn't focus. So he had returned to the main level to wait for Ziva. The sun had started to set, creating shadows across the room. Gibbs had just turned his back on the door to turn on the lights when he heard the door open and close quietly. He turned toward the sound, and found Ziva standing there, her back against the door as she looked at him. Her hair was now loose around her shoulders, and her dark eyes stood out, despite the growing dusk. Her gaze was intense, and didn't leave his as she stared at him.

Without saying a word, he strode toward her. She waited for him, and the moment he was within reach she put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. He captured her lips in his, and he put his hand behind her head to deepen the kiss. His free arm snaked around her waist and pulled her body flush against his. The contact sparked a fire within him, and for the first time in four months, he felt alive again. He was complete, and he suddenly realized that if there was ever a person with whom he could spend the rest of his life, it was the woman in his arms. They finally pulled away to catch their breath, and for a moment they look into each other's eyes. He pulled her into another embrace, this time with the fervor of not having held her for the past four months. He pressed his cheek to her hair, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple.

"Welcome home, Ziva."


	14. A Bump in the Road

Gibbs was working on his boat when suddenly two slender arms wrapped around him, hands flat against his chest, pulling him against the body behind him. He grinned. Only one person was able to sneak up on him so efficiently.

"I am home," Ziva said, peeking over his shoulder.

"I can tell." His voice was playful. He felt her place a kiss on his neck. He twisted in her arms to hug her face on. He planted a kiss on her lips. "How was Israel?" he asked.

He had been surprised when she told him she was visiting Israel so soon after returning to NCIS. He had wondered if she regretted her decision to come back to America, but then had realized he was being foolish. The first time she had come to NCIS, she had been running. She had run from her father, Mossad, and her country. But now, she was able to embrace both aspects of her life, Israel and America, and he should be happy for her happiness. And he was.

"Israel was beautiful," she replied. "My visit was a little strange though."

"How so?" he asked, his arms still around her. She laid her head on his chest.

"I saw more of it than I have in years. I had forgotten how beautiful it is. I did not work. I simply enjoyed the sights." She looked up at him. "One day, I want you to come with me. I would like to share my country with you."

"Oh yeah?" His light tone hid his joy at her desire to share more of her life with him. He smiled at her. "And which part of Israel would you like to share the most?" She mirrored his grin.

"Well, my bedroom, of course," she retorted, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. She rolled her eyes at him. "Tel Aviv, Haifa, Jerusalem… Haifa truly is beautiful. I used to summer there as a child."

"You know, you're using the word beautiful a lot…" he teased.

"It is not my fault English does not have words good enough to describe my country," she teased right back. Then she sighed tiredly, her head returning to his chest.

"You eaten yet?"

"Mmmmm…" she moaned, shaking her head no. "I came straight here." She tightened her grip on him. "I missed you." He pressed a kiss to her hair.

"I missed you too," he replied. "I missed you enough to think ahead and make you some dinner." She pulled away to look at him skeptically. "Yeah, yeah," he said in response to her cynicism. He moved towards the wooden stairs, pulling her behind him. "Come on," he said with a beckoning jerk of his head. "It's in the oven."

"I am honored," she said playfully. He grinned.

"Yeah," he retorted, "you should be."

They shared a meal of homemade macaroni and cheese. It was a favorite of theirs, as it had been one of the first dishes they had prepared together. Ziva had never tried macaroni and cheese before, so he had pulled out his grandmother's recipe to give her a great first experience. The attempt had been a success, as Ziva had loved the mingling tastes of sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack cheese, coupled with the creaminess of the condensed and whole milk.

They ate their meal with casual conversation. Gibbs didn't ask for any details about her trip, knowing that she would share them if and when she wanted to. Instead he told her about the latest case the team had gotten while she was away. It had been relatively simple, compared to some of the other major cases that fall into their laps. But the relative simplicity had allowed the two male agents on the team to have some interesting bouts of teasing banter. Soon, he had Ziva laughing at Tony's antics, and Gibbs loved the sound of it.

As they cleared the dishes together, he took some time to take in her appearance. Her shoulders were square and confident, telegraphing her self-assuredness and contentedness. Her eyes were bright, and uncharacteristically unguarded. Her skin seemed to glow, no doubt a result of spending long stretches of time in the sun while on vacation. He noticed that she was quick to smile during the meal, finding mirth in much of what he had said.

All of these factors came together to lead to a single conclusion; she was happy. He found himself oddly at ease as well, and their casual physical contact was so refreshing that he himself was content. They spent so much of their time at work, and thus, so much time hiding their relationship from the others, that moments like these, washing the dishes, were especially tender.

After the dishes were dried and put away, they retired to the upstairs bedroom. They had dimmed the lights and turned on some low music before curling up together on the bed. They each enjoyed the feel of the other's presence; Gibbs stroked Ziva's hair in a repetitive motion that caused her to relax completely against him. She rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, and her eyes drooped contentedly.

He looked around the room they shared. It was still Spartan from his days of being without long-term female contact, but little things had been added to reveal Ziva's influence. A flowering plant sat on the window sill and a richly colored throw lay along the end of the bed. Looking at the bedside table, his eyes rested on a book with Hebrew script on the cover—when he had asked what book it was, she had told him it was a Hebrew translation of _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

Lying on top of the book was a standard size photo, as if it had been tossed casually on the table. Confusion filled him for a short moment until he remembered he had been the one to put it there. He had found it on top of Ziva's desk the day after she had left. He almost dismissed it as a prank of some kind, courtesy of Tony, but the shirtless man it featured made him curious. He recognized the man as the one who had approached Ziva at the United Nations Gala event six months ago, just before her father had shown up. He had pocketed the photo, intending to ask her for more information about it. Though her having such a picture had struck him as odd, he had barely spared it a second thought after he had pocketed it on Ziva's behalf.

But now as he sat looking at it, the curiosity in him resurfaced. Why did she have a recent shirtless photo of a guy she had claimed was merely an old friend? Suddenly, dread filled him. Did it have anything to do with the fact that she had been so excited to return to Israel? Was it why she was so content upon her return? He tried to slow his thoughts down; the same feelings had surfaced during the Michael Locke incident four months ago, and look how that situation had almost ended. But he found that he could not look away from the photo, and the urge to ask her about it overwhelmed him. He finally reached over and plucked the photo from its position atop the novel.

"Ziver," he said, "who is this?" She lifted her head tiredly, but the moment her eyes found the photo, he felt her tense. She disentangled herself from him, sitting up and taking the picture from him. She looked at it for a moment before speaking.

"Where did you get this?" she asked. She looked at him, and Gibbs saw that the easy mirth from before was gone, only to be replaced by a guardedness that made him kick himself for bringing up the subject in the first place.

"It was on top of your desk," he said. "I thought you might want it." She looked at him skeptically, as if she did not believe his story. But then comprehension crossed her features.

"Tony," she sighed. "I am going to kill him."As he watched, her gaze returned to the photo, and as her eyes filled with bitterness, he was struck with the idea that the man in the photo was more than an old friend. That he was more than a current friend.

"Ziva—"

"It was in my desk drawer. Tony had no right to snooping around."

"Ziver." His voice became slightly harder, and it caught her attention. "Who is he?"

He sounded suspicious, and it immediately set the tone of the conversation. Ziva, of course, had picked up on it, and all semblance of relaxation left her body as she became on edge. She crawled to the end of the bed, but this time Gibbs didn't accommodate her desire for space. He followed, sitting next to her.

"His name is Michael Rivkin. He was an old friend," she said, her voice sharp. Gibbs' gut started to twist, and he knew something was wrong.

"Was?"

"Yes, was."

"What is he now?" Her eyes darted to his, but then quickly looked away. She hesitated before answering, and he knew that she was seriously thinking about shutting down the line of inquiry.

"My father assigned him to be my partner when I returned to Mossad." Her answer came grudgingly, and Gibbs knew that if he wanted the answer he really wanted, he would have to ask directly before she completely closed herself off.

"Did you sleep with him?" The question came out with more suspicion than he had wanted. He trusted her, but her reactions were beginning to worry him. She was hiding something, and Gibbs recognized the threat that secret posed; it had the power to completely destroy the life he had created with Ziva, and the future he so dearly wanted with her.

"When?" Her responding question nearly broke his heart.

"Well, gee, Ziva, I don't know. Ever?" The suspicion had all but disappeared, only to be replaced with cynicism and spite. He recognized the defense mechanism, but he didn't care. When Ziva didn't speak, his heart fell as he realized that her answer was just as clear as if she had said it directly. "When?" His voice was quiet again, vulnerable.

Ziva stood and walked to the wall opposite him, and this time Gibbs let her claim her space. She turned to face him, leaned back against the wall. Her expression was guarded, but he could see her features laced with guilt and sadness.

"Israel." Her answer was quiet.

"You mean you just came back from spending a week with your lover?" He would have said more, but the creasing of Ziva's brow made him pause.

"No." Her voice was crisp. "No, Jethro, it was not like that." She looked at her feet. "After my position with NCIS was terminated," she finally answered his question.

"It wasn't like that, huh?" The harshness was back. "Tell me, Ziva what was it like, then? It must have been really something to get you wanting to visit Israel again so soon."

"Gibbs—"

"I'm glad you weren't too torn up after leaving NCIS." He couldn't stop himself. The words kept pouring from between his lips. "And I'm definitely glad I was able to be replaced so easily—"

"Drip it." Her voice was sharp, and the drastic change in her expression made him fall silent. Her eyes her still guarded, but now seemed to glow with an angry intensity. Her jaw was clenched tightly shut, and he knew that he had struck a nerve. Her tone was so powerful, however, he did not even think about correcting her idiomatic mistake. "How dare you." Her voice seemed to rumble through him. "When have I _ever_ given you the idea that what you and I have created together is _replaceable_?"

"Well, you sure jumped into bed real quick—"

"I did what I had to, Gibbs!" she shouted. Her outburst shocked him. She had never raised her voice to him before, and the effect was incredibly formidable. Her next words were somewhat softer as she got her emotion back under control. "You do not understand what it was like," she continued. "You were still in America, and you still had regular contact with Abby and McGee, and even Dinozzo was only a session in MTAC away. I had no one, Gibbs." She looked at him. "I had to come to terms with the fact that I would never see any of you again. I would never see _you_ again, Jethro." She looked at her feet. "And I could not."

"Could not what?"

"I could not come to terms with it." Her voice was smaller now. "I could not focus, or concentrate. I could not sleep. All I could think about was how much I wanted to see you again, to be with you." And then the hardness in her voice was back, and while her gaze left her feet, she refused to look at him, instead focusing on something to her left. "Michael made his desires clearly known as soon as I landed in Tel Aviv."

"But why?" He was careful to leave out any sort of emotion from his question, but it still created an adverse effect. Instead of answering, she straightened from her position against the wall. She shook her head.

"I cannot do this now," she said simply, and his heart broke. "I am going to take a shower." And then she was gone with a resounding click of the bathroom door. He heard the shower turn on shortly afterward.

Despair filled him. All of the feelings of betrayal and anger and hurt that had first surfaced with Michael Locke were now realized. She had cheated on him, and had then come home to him as if nothing was wrong. And now she had shut down, unwilling to even speak to him about it.

He paced the room, his mind filled with swirling thoughts. He thought about leaving, either just for a drive to clear his head, or packing a bag and just vanishing. He was angry, and then hurt, then envious, and then vengeful. But every so often he would return to the fact that she would not even talk to him about it. He sat on the bed and rested his forearms on his knees. Within moments of sitting, he knew he was making the wrong decision. They had to talk about this, and they had to talk now.

He stood, his mind made up, and entered the bathroom. The room was filled with steam and an oppressive heat, making it difficult for him to breathe. But even so, he stripped, tossing his clothes next to hers on the floor. He opened the shower door and stepped inside swiftly, shutting it behind him with a snap, in case she had any ideas of slipping past him. But the nude form facing the far wall didn't even react to his entrance.

Her hand was pressed against the wall, supporting her body as the water from the shower head cascaded down her back. Her shoulders were slumped, her hair wet and limp against her skull. Taking a step forward into the spray of water, he jerked back reflexively. The water was scalding, and his skin burned where the water had made contact. He looked at Ziva, who was still standing with her back exposed to the hot water.

Gibbs turned the shower knob towards the cold side, just enough so that the water was still warm, but no longer burning. He then stepped into the spray once more, his body blocking the water from reaching Ziva. Still she didn't react, and it made him uneasy.

"Please talk to me, Ziva." His voice was pleading. He saw her fingers tense where they were splayed against the wall of the shower. He waited for her to say something. It seemed like hours to him, but when she finally spoke, her voice was thick with emotion.

"You were killing me Jethro." Her free hand came up to wipe her face, though he couldn't tell if it were tears or shower water that she was brushing away. "My father wanted in the field as soon as possible, and I could not even keep my head together long enough to spar. You were the only thing I could think about, and every moment was spent wanting to be home with you. After three weeks, my father was ready to send me out whether or not I was ready." She paused.

"Michael would offer to escort me to my quarters, or to take me to dinner. The more I resisted him, the more suggestive his comments became. As time continued to pass, and the pain of missing you only got worse, I finally accepted his offer. I thought it would get you out of my mind, if only for a short while.

"It did not work. I still thought about you, and as the arrangement I had with Michael continued, I realized how wrong it was. Instead of forgetting you, I was dishonoring my memories of you. I felt dirty all the time, and no matter how many times I scrubbed my skin, the stain on my soul would not disappear. And then I knew that you would never want me again, after what I had done.

"And somehow, that made it easier. I told myself that being away from you was for the best, because I would not be able to see your disgust. I refused to do anything unprofessional with Rivkin after that, much to his displeasure. The damage had been done, and I no longer needed him. I could breathe again, and I could function enough to stay alive. I was able to accept that I would never see you again." Her breath hitched at the end, and he knew that she was struggling to keep her emotions under control.

"And then," she had to pause as her voice broke. "And then, my father told me I was being sent back. I was being reassigned to my former position at NCIS." Her voice faltered. "I was going to tell you what I had done—the last thing I wanted to do was to lie to you. But when I got off the elevator, and saw you waiting for me… When you wrapped your arms around me that afternoon I realized that I could not tell you. I could not destroy what I have with you." She took in a shaky breath. "I would not survive it." She was trembling now. Seeing her so vulnerable pulled at his heartstrings. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know what to say.

"Why was his picture in your desk?" he asked. The suspicion had left his voice; instead he sounded like the investigator he was, gathering all the facts.

"My father sent it to me. I do not know why he sent it to my work address rather than to my apartment, but he did." Her voice was filled with bitterness. "He is still convinced that Michael is a good man, and would be a good husband. He wants me to marry, and have kids, so that he can have a male heir." She sighed. "I wanted to throw it away the minute I saw it, but I knew that if I did so at work, Tony would find it and ask questions. So I put it in my desk drawer, intending to take it home and throw it out, but I forgot about it.

"Tony came to his own conclusions, I am sure. But despite what you might have overheard him speculating, I did not go back to Israel to see Michael Rivkin. I went back because my father asked me to; because he wanted to see more of me, as his daughter. It had nothing to do with Rivkin."

Silence fell as she stopped speaking, and Gibbs processed what she had told him. He hadn't realized how difficult it had been for her. She had not even hinted at the turmoil she had been feeling the few times they had spoken on the phone. In the four months they had been separated, he never once thought the situation was permanent. He could not imagine what he would have done had he been forced to accept the situation as indefinite. Even thinking about the possibility now hit him like a kick to the gut. To have that feeling of despair overtake his existence as it had hers was incomprehensible to him. What would _he_ have done to escape the pain?

A thud against the wall startled him out of his thoughts. Another, louder thump quickly followed the first. Ziva's fist hit the tiled wall a third time, and then it was like a switch had been thrown. Suddenly her fists starting pounding the tiles in rapid succession, her anguish palpable as it permeated the steamy enclave. Her blows continued to increase in speed and fervor until Gibbs thought he heard the tiles cracking. But then he saw the blood smearing onto the tiles with every punch, and alarm filled his mind.

"Ziva!" She ignored him, only striking harder against the slick surface of the wall. What sounded like Hebrew flowed in a steady stream from her lips, and her tone told him that whatever she was saying was not at all pleasant. The amount of blood on the wall increased with each slam of her fist. "Ziva!" With no thought to his personal safety, he grabbed her arms, and spinning her around to face him. "Ziva! Stop!" he said, keeping his grip on her arms. Even with all the steam condensed on her cheeks, he was able to see he flood of tears streaming down her face. Her eyes were filled with pain, and he knew it had nothing to do with her now-bloodied hands.

Without another thought he pulled her to his bare chest, wrapping his arms around her. She struggled against him, pushing against his chest with her hands and twisting her body in an attempt to break free. But he kept his hold on her, refusing to let her do any more damage to herself. Eventually she tired, and she relaxed marginally, allowing him to pull her even closer. Sobs wracked her body, and he could hear her repeat the words "I'm so sorry" over and over into his neck. The words continued to flow, only dying out when her body finally relaxed completely.

He lowered them both to the floor, his arms still wrapped around her, until they sat on the bottom of the shower stall. He held her as five months of anguish poured out of her, and together they sat even after the water started to cool.

A while later, Ziva had fallen silent and her sobs ceased. She leaned against him, utterly exhausted. Gibbs turned off the now freezing water; he opened the stall door and reached out to grab one of the soft towels resting on the nearby rack. Pulling it into the shower, he wrapped Ziva in it. She barely had the strength to respond, and so he scooped her up in his arms, towel and all, and carried her into the bedroom. He deposited her gently on the bed before finding one of his old, over-sized NIS t-shirts. Before he put it over her head, he rubbed the towel gently over her skin to dry the remaining moisture.

She whimpered slightly when he got to her back, and upon looking at it, he saw that it was red and inflamed. He then remembered that the water had been scalding when he had entered the shower, and she had had her back exposed to it. He made a mental note to check on her skin later, to make sure it didn't blister. He pulled his NIS shirt over her head, removing the towel, and then proceeded to clean and bandage her hands. The lights were still dimmed, so he was unable to see the full extent of the damage, but what he could see didn't seem too bad. He then tucked her under the thick covers, adding the throw from the end of the bed on top for added warmth.

She was asleep even before her head hit the pillow, and Gibbs found it disconcerting. This was uncharted territory. He had never seen Ziva so emotional or so vulnerable, not even after she had shot Ari. He gazed on her unconscious form, noticing that even though she slept, her usually peaceful expression was not present. He remained at the bedside for a few moments more, taking some time to stroke her wet curls and caressing her cheek. She didn't even stir, a testament to how draining her emotional outpour had been. After a few minutes more he dressed quietly and left the room, leaving the door halfway open behind him. He wanted to be able to hear her if she woke up needing him, but he needed space to think. He needed to process everything that had happened, and decide what he wanted to do about it.

* * *

Several hours later, Gibbs was boiling some water when a quiet, raspy voice spoke up from behind him.

"I do not understand." Gibbs turned, and found Ziva standing in the doorway to the kitchen, still in his NIS t-shirt. Her hands hadn't bled through the bandages, he was happy to see, and she was still dressed in his NIS shirt, hair wild from sleeping on it wet. He arched an eyebrow at her statement. "You followed me… comforted me… and then took care of me." She waved her bandaged hands at him as evidence. "Why would you…? When I…" She abandoned her attempts to complete a sentence, instead bowing her head. Gibbs left his place by the stove to approach her on quiet feet. One hand cupped her upper arm, while the other tilted her chin up so that she was looking at him.

"This has been weighing on you ever since Vance brought you back." His words weren't in question, but she nodded slightly in affirmation anyway, not lifting her head. "I was able to think while you were sleeping," he said, his voice calm. He looked her straight in the eye. "I am hurt that you slept with him." She tried to drop her gaze, to lower her head once more, but his strong fingers refused to let her. "But I realized that the two of us aren't really so different. I tried to replace Shannon, after she died. I dated any redhead I met, just to try to get close to her again. And like you, it didn't work." He paused. "I am hurt, but I can't be angry, and I can't blame you." He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek. "Even if I wanted to, I don't think I could punish you more than you have already punished yourself." As he watched, her lips trembled slightly, and her eyes tried to find anything but his to rest on.

"I am so sor—" He silenced her by putting his finger on her lips.

"I know," he said. He finally made eye contact with her. "And I forgive you." A small sob escaped her lips at his words, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her once more, and this time, she returned the embrace. They stayed that way for several long moments, and when they finally disengaged, Ziva wiped her eyes and cleared her throat with finality. Then she noticed the boiling water and moved to pull out mugs and teabags. As she worked, Gibbs watched, remaining near enough to brush against her slightly.

"You know," she started, her voice still husky, but her tone closer to normalcy, "whenever I think I understand Americans and their strange tendencies, you go and do something completely irrational like this." Gibbs chuckled at her comment, confident that even though they were both still hurting, they could heal from this. Just as she was reaching out to grasp the handle of the steaming water kettle, he spoke.

"I love you, Ziver."

Her hand paused on the kettle's handle. For a moment, he thought she would bolt again, but a moment later, her words made his heart soar.

"I love you too, Jethro."


	15. Where The Heart Is

For the next few weeks, Gibb and Ziva worked on getting back to normal. The process was hindered slightly by Ziva's inability to forgive herself, but Gibbs was patient, and little by little their relationship healed, and Gibbs could sense it was even stronger than before.

At work, nothing changed, except perhaps they had more silent communication, more instances of subtle physical contact. They kept things low key, but it was reassuring all the same. Ziva did not confront Tony about his snooping, taking Gibbs' advice to just let the whole thing rest. They moved past it, and as things returned to normal, they both cherished it. It wasn't until their next case, however, until the playing field leveled slightly in terms of personal revelations.

"Ziva," Gibbs ordered gruffly, "call Dinozzo, get an update." His tone was curt as he marched up to the house with McGee, but it only made her grin. He was on edge from being thrust back into his hometown so abruptly, and Ziva could barely contain her mirth at his discomfort. His interaction with the town sheriff had also amused her. The deputy immediately struck her as crude and unintelligent, but also used to getting what he wanted. A common thug, she thought, and Gibbs' reaction to his appearance had only confirmed her deduction.

Ziva sighed as her phone chirped and the screen flashed _no service_.

"I'm afraid you're not going to have much luck…" Ziva turned toward the voice, tensing slightly. But the man who entered her field of vision was anything but threatening. A wooden cane was in his hand, and his hair was gray. But despite his somewhat frail physicality, his eyes were full of life. Those eyes… Something seemed familiar. "Occasionally when the wind is right you can get a signal," the stranger continued.

"Thank you," she said, her voice friendlier than she had expected her would be. "Is there a public phone around here I could use?"

"There's one in my store. My name's Jackson."

"Ziva," she introduced herself with a smile.

"Well, Ziva, it looks like you dropped something." She followed his line of sight to the ground, where her eyes quickly spotted a twenty. She didn't recall dropping it; she usually kept her money in a different pocket from where she kept her cell phone. She bent to pick it up, intending to return it to Jackson, but his cane on the bill kept her from doing so. "Kinda tells a story, doesn't it?" the older man said. "A twenty dollar bill in your wallet is just a slip of paper. But find it on the ground, and suddenly its full of wonderit becomes a source of wonder.

"Context," she replied from her crouched position, "changes a thing." She looked up at him.

"That it can." He removed his cane, and she plucked the bill from the ground, and stood gracefully. She did not quite know what to make of this man. Americans, she had learned, were indeed more friendly than the citizens of her native country, but the ease with which he started up such an abstract conversation with her was unusual.

But despite her surprise, she could not help but be charmed by the man's words. His tone was friendly, and the gravelly texture of his voice was slightly hypnotic. She knew her instincts should have put her immediately on edge, but for some reason she was unable to be anything other than relaxed.

"I bet back in Israel you were considered a pretty girl. Step one foot in my country, and instantly you become an exotic beauty." Now confusion started to creep in. Had she missed something in regards to American male behavior? She knew that Gibbs was not the norm, and she had hoped not all of them were like Tony, but was this blatant compliment from a complete stranger… she had never experienced before. She wanted to be skeptical, to put distance between herself and this white-haired old man. But she could not bring herself to do so; she felt an indescribable draw towards this man.

"When did we start talking about people?" she asked, attempting to redirect the conversation.

"If the I in NCIS is to be believed, you are observant enough to realize that all of this is a pretext for engaging a young woman in conversation." His suave answer made her smile. He returned it, and she was once again struck by how familiar he seemed.

Gibbs followed Janet LaCombe to her car, listening to her excitedly talk the story of her nephew's past. As he helped her lift her suitcase into the back of her pick-up, he saw Ziva talking with someone at the end of the driveway. A closer look gave him a chance to recognize the man who had captured her attention, and he had to force himself to keep from rolling his eyes. Of course _she_ would be the one to come into contact with the old man first—he wondered how long it would take her to realize who the man was.

The aunt finally pulled out of the driveway, and Gibbs strolled down the pavement toward the conversing duo. "Word travels fast," he said in lieu of a proper greeting. He saw Ziva's eyes light up at the familiarity of his tone. She knew that something was special about this man, and Gibbs guessed it would only be a matter of minutes before she figured it out.

"That it does, when people actually open their mouths and speak to one another. You don't call, you don't write…" And there it was. Ziva's face had creased into a smirk, and he knew that she had realized why the older man had seemed so familiar.

"Ziva, McGee," he said. "Meet Jackson Gibbs. My father."

And then the smirk turned into a brilliant smile, and he knew this case was going to be a long couple of days.

Later that night, McGee had gone to reserve their rooms at the local motel while Gibbs had stepped outside to call and talk to Abby, leaving Ziva inside the store with Jackson Gibbs, reviewing the facts they had acquired so far. The store was silent until Jackson spoke to her.

"Does Jethro make you call him Boss too?" the elder man asked.

"No," Ziva replied with a half-smile. "I do not call him boss. Only McGee and Dinozzo call him that." She paused. "And he does not make them call him that. To my knowledge, it is a sign of respect. He is a good investigator, a good leader, and a good role model. They recognize his superiority and they acknowledge it in their own way. And I know for a fact that he does not approve of superlatives like 'sir', but he permits the familiarity of 'boss' because it has become a part of their relationship with him." Jackson looked at her for a moment before responding.

"And what do you call him?" he asked.

"Gibbs." Her answer was simple and she didn't elaborate.

"And have you always called my son Gibbs?" came the follow-up.

"When I first came into contact with NCIS, I called him Special Agent Gibbs. I only called him Gibbs once during that period, and it was not out of familiarity. I meant it as an insult." She paused. Jackson was just about to ask another question when she continued. "And then when I returned to NCIS, this time for a longer time, it was once again Special Agent Gibbs. And then it shortened to Agent Gibbs, and then to simply Gibbs." She looked at him. "As I said: context can change a thing." Jackson grinned at her.

"And why not boss?" Jackson asked. "Do you not respect him as the others do?"

"I do respect him. It is impossible to. But the respect I have for him is different from the respect the others have. Where I come from, addressing your superior by anything as familiar as 'boss' would be a quick way to getting yourself shot on your next mission," she finished with a smile. She glanced up at the older man to see comprehension on his wizened face.

"Are you Mossad, my dear?"

"Mr. Gibbs, you impress me with your intuition. I was surprised you recognized my accent earlier."

"Mr. Gibbs is Jethro's grandfather. Please, call me Jackson." Ziva smiled.

"You sound very much like another of my colleagues. He is also quite gentlemanly." She shot him a sly look. "Are you this charming with all of the ladies?" she asked.

"Only the beautiful ones," he quipped.

"Well, Jackson," she made eye contact briefly as she emphasized his name, "I consider myself honored."

At that point, Gibbs reentered the store, cell phone in hand. "McGee back yet?" he asked.

"Not yet," she responded. She checked her watch, and was surprised to see how late it had gotten. "I wonder what is keeping him."

"I'm ready to call it a night, so he better get back here soon, or his hide is mine."

"There's space up at the house, you know," Jackson said. "You all are welcome to it." Before Gibbs could respond, McGee came bursting through the door.

"Sorry it took so long, boss," he said in a rush. "I had to go to three different hotels and motels in the area, and they were all booked. I was able to get a single room at the motel by the interstate because of a last minute cancellation—"

"One room, McGee?" Gibbs interrupted. "What are we going to do with one room?"

"Well," Jackson interjected before Gibbs could ream the younger agent out. "I have room at my place. One of you can take the motel room, and the other two can come with me." He paused before continuing. "I must insist that Ziva comes with me—I know that motel, and it is no place for a lady." She arched an eyebrow, shooting a presumptuous grin in McGee's direction.

"I'll take the motel," McGee offered quickly. He wanted to get away from Gibbs as quickly as possible. "Night, boss." He grabbed his backpack from the table Ziva was sitting at and then moved towards the door. "See you tomorrow boss." And then he was gone.

Gibbs took a deep breath before turning back to Ziva and his father.

"All right," he said. "Let's go."

Twenty minutes later Gibbs sipped a cup of coffee as his father showed Ziva around the house. She quickly claimed the floor on which to sleep, and would not be dissuaded.

"Jackson, I greatly appreciate your offer, but I am perfectly fine sleeping on the floor. I have slept in much worse places." Jackson realized he would not win this particular argument. He sighed, and looked at where his son was leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Coffee at this hour?" he asked her quietly. Ziva glanced casually at the team leader.

"He always drinks coffee," she said, her voice nonchalant. "I strongly suspect it flows in his veins by now." She grabbed her overnight bag. "Now, if you will excuse me, I should go get changed." And then she disappeared into the bathroom. Gibbs suppressed a smile. He knew for a fact that she often slept in her day clothes when out on a case, so he deduced her desire to change into pajamas was merely a ploy to get him and his father to talk.

Jackson entered the kitchen and stood next to his son. "What a woman," he said conversationally. "Girls like her are far and few between."

"You have no idea," Gibbs replied, taking another swig of coffee. When he saw Jackson looking at him, the situation was becoming dangerous. He pushed off the counter, emptying his mug with a final swig.

"How much do you know about her?" his father asked him before he could escape.

"More than most, less than some." His answer was meant from the perspective of an employer, but the glint in his father's eyes told him that Jackson was hearing exactly what Gibbs did not want him to. Before Jackson could further explore his speculation, Gibbs spoke.

"Night, Pops," he said, his tone final. To his relief, Jackson took the hint and left the kitchen to make his way upstairs. Just after the older man's bedroom door closed with a click, Ziva exited the bathroom, now clad in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

"Did you two get a chance to talk?" she asked, coming to stand next to him so that she could keep her voice low. He sent her a sharp look, but it was softened by the small curl of his lips.

"Yeah, we did," he answered, "thanks to you."

"Me?" she asked, her voice falsely incredulous. "I was in the bathroom—"

"And since when do you use pajamas while out on a crime scene?"

"Since I ended up staying at your childhood home, mon ami." She looked around curiously. "It is very… quaint. Is that the word?"

"Yes, it is," he answered. "You know, you really don't have to sleep on the floor you know. My bed is plenty big—"

"Oh, no you don't," she said, her voice warning. "There is no way I am going to get caught in bed with you by your father." She affected a morose expression. "The poor old man 's heart would probably break with disappointment when he finds out I am already spoken for—" Her words were cut off when Gibbs pounced on her, pinning her against the counter. He then proceeded to run his fingers over her slender sides, with strategically placed pinches that made Ziva struggle to contain her laughter.

"Uncle?" he asked, his voice low in her ear.

"Don't you mean father?" she gasped out. "He is who we were talking about, no?" She looked up at him, her mirth clearly reflected brightly in her eyes. She was smiling, and he was suddenly aware of how much she had changed since he had first met her three years ago. All of a sudden, he planted a kiss on her lips. She received it, wrapping her arms around him. After a moment he pulled away.

"Night, Ziva."

"Good night Gibbs."

The next morning, Gibbs was the first one up, and he was making a pot of coffee when his father joined him in the kitchen.

"Ziva not up yet?" Jackson asked. "I got the impression she was an early riser."

"She usually is," Gibbs replied. At Jackson's curious look, he continued with a roll of his eyes. "She told us she started work at Mossad at 0500." There: a perfectly professional explanation.

"I'll go see if she's still asleep," his father said. He padded out of the kitchen quickly. After a moment or two Gibbs followed. When he finally caught sight of his father, the older man was tiptoeing toward Ziva's still sleeping form.

In a flash, Gibbs intercepted his father on silent feet. Placing a firm hand on Jackson's shoulder, he prevented him from taking another step. Indicating for the elder Gibbs to remain silent, the Marine guided him out of the room. Leaving him in the doorway, Gibbs disappeared in to the kitchen reemerging a moment later with a mug of coffee and what looked like a ball of crumpled up newspaper in his hands.

Returning to the doorway of Ziva's room, Gibbs paused, and then motioned for Jackson to watch. He lobbed the newspaper ball into the room. It landed on Ziva's hip and bounced off lightly, but was enough to cause Ziva to spring into motion. She rolled out of her blankets and swiftly pushed herself to her feet. Her hand emerged from under her pillow, gun in hand and she brought it up to shoulder level with expert ease. She was instantly alert, with her gun and eyes scanning the corners of the room for the threat that had woken her. Gibbs saw her eyes narrow when she saw the ball of newspaper on the floor, and her gaze shifted to see them both watching her from the doorway.

Without speaking, she lowered her gun but did not relinquish it, instead tucking it into her waistband at the small of her back. With a glaring stare in Gibbs' direction, she stalked towards the two spectators. Her expression clearly told she was irritated. Gibbs grinned slightly and held out the mug of fresh coffee in his hand.

"Good morning," he said. She took the mug from his hand as soon as she was within reach.

"I am not speaking to you," she said without breaking stride, sidling between the two men to pass through the doorway. She made her way through the kitchen and went straight to the sliding door that led to the back deck. Gibbs turned to his father.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have done that, son," Jackson said.

"She may be angry at me now, Dad," Gibbs replied, "but she'll thank me later." He nailed his father with direct stare. "Better her angry, than you dead." At his father's incredulous look, he sighed. "I didn't do that for the hell of it. If you had woken her up like you were going to, that gun would have been pressed against your temple." He paused. "I told you: you have no idea what kind of woman she is." Without waiting for his father's response, Gibbs followed Ziva's path through the kitchen, grabbing his own coffee mug on the way.

He found her leaning on the wooden rail of the deck, cradling her mug in her hands as she scanned the tree line of the backyard. She turned her head slightly when she heard the door slide open and closed, but returned to her gazing once she recognized the sound of Gibbs' footsteps. He came to stand beside her, similarly resting his elbows on the deck rail. He didn't say anything, knowing an abruptly-woken Ziva was a volatile one. Silence reigned for a few minutes before Ziva spoke.

"That will teach me to sleep in," she said in a wry tone. He glanced at her sideways as she took another sip of her coffee.

"Jackson was about to wake you up personally," he said. "He needed to know that it wouldn't have been the smartest of decisions." She remained silent. "Ziver—"

"I will get over it Gibbs," she responded, her voice short. She closed her eyes when she realized how she sounded. "It is not a pleasant way to wake up." She finally deigned to look at him. "The coffee helps."

"Least I could do." He took a swig of his own. "That bothered you a lot more than it just being a bad way to wake up." The statement was not a question. It hung in the air, and Ziva did not respond. But it was out there: a subtle offer to listen if she wanted to talk about it. Several more minutes passed as they nursed their individual coffees, allowing the caffeine to do its job.

"I thought you had done it for hits," she said finally.

"Kicks."

"Yes, that," she said, waving her hand in acknowledgement. "It seemed as if you did it because it would amuse you to see what would happen. To wake up on edge like that is bad enough without realizing it was for entertainment."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I know that. When I am awake, that is. I am still in process becoming fully conscious." She allowed a small grin to grace her features. "Which is why I said I would get over it. It is only a matter of time before the coffee fully kicks in." Gibbs smiled and nodded. He pushed himself off the rail and put a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Take your time," he said. "I'll be inside." She nodded, and he made his way back inside to where his father was watching and waiting. He slid the door shut behind him, and ignored Jackson's inquiring look. He refilled his coffee mug, and went to go get washed and ready to go meet McGee at the store. Ten minutes later, Ziva also returned, but instead of refilling her empty mug, she washed and dried it, leaving it to rest on the counter.

"Good morning Jackson," she said, her tone light.

"You seem to be in a better mood," the older man commented. She pegged him with a stare that made him freeze. Then she blinked, and her gaze softened.

"You try waking like that, and then see how you feel." She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to speak. "Please, let it alone. I prefer to being pissed off than having killed my boss's father." She smirked at his shocked look. "Excuse me. I have to go get ready." And then she was gone, leaving the old man alone in the kitchen.

The atmosphere of the town was quiet, and Gibbs noticed Ziva was able to relax again after that morning's scare. The case wrapped up fairly quickly, thanks to the help of his father. Gibbs wasn't all that surprised at how the case had turned out, with the son-in-law of his childhood nemesis being the murderer. Of course Chuck Winslow would approve of such a man for his daughter: Nick Kingston was a 21st century version of the bully Winslow had been, using henchman to do his dirty work. The Marine in Gibbs was outraged that someone would be so cowardly, to not be able to fight his own battles.

As the team was waiting to leave for DC, Ziva announced that she was going to take a walk around the town square. She claimed that she needed to stretch her legs before sitting in a car for three hours or more, but Gibbs suspected that she wanted to get another look at the town he had grown up in. He wondered what she thought about the town; it was so different from her own childhood home, and it must be piquing her interest to know what it would be like to live in such a quiet place.

Gibbs waited for his agents to bid his father farewell, surprised that he had made such an impact on them. Seeing Abby wrap him in one of her trademark bear-hugs made him smile slightly. He was also surprised when he realized that he was not looking forward to leaving. He had not regretted leaving home to join the Marines, and he had never thought about coming back here. But now he was here, with his father, and he realized that while he would be unhappy living here, he wanted to spend more time with his father before he left.

His turn to say goodbye came and he embraced him in a hug that rivaled Abby's. "Bye Dad," he whispered. He pressed his cheek to his father's in a silent gesture of affection. They had had their differences in the past, but there had been one crucial fact that he had almost forgotten in his years away from home: he loved his father.

They parted ways, and Gibbs was driving towards the town square in his Charger when he spotted the Stillwater train station. Red white and blue banners adorned the platform roof, and the sight of them fluttering in the wind took him back to a time when his life was simpler, brighter.

"What were you and those guys fighting about?" The clear voice echoed through his memories, as if their speaker was in the car next to him.

"Are you waiting for the train too?"

"I guess you're not a lumberjack."

"Everyone needs a code they can live by."

"What's your name?"

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs." His voice then, so young and naïve.

"I'm just going to call you Gibbs."

"You can call me anything you want," he had replied.

"I'm Shannon."

He closed his eyes, and he could see the scene play out in his head as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The glint of Shannon's red hair as it rustled in the wind, her bright eyes as they pierced his own. The beat of his heart as she spoke, pounding through his chest so loud that he thought she could hear it. As he looked at the train platform, the scene faded, and then suddenly the place Shannon had occupied filled with another form. Tan skin took the place of ivory, and silky red hair transformed into voluminous black curls, now moving gently in the breeze.

The slender form turned towards him, but instead of blue eyes glancing in his direction, warm brown orbs stared at him. And then the shadow of Shannon dissipated completely, and Ziva was walking towards him. But his heart didn't slow as he expected. Instead it sped up slightly, and his palms started to sweat slightly as the familiar rush of adrenaline flowed through his veins. He watched as she bent to look inside the passenger window of the Challenger, her back arching sinuously as she leaned against the car.

"You know what I first thought when I saw you peel out of the garage with this?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, her voice dropping to a sultry pitch. "Hot." She smiled, but it quickly faded when she noticed his subdued mood. Her brow furrowed in concern. "What is wrong?" A beat passed as he felt a myriad of mixed emotions swirled through his mind. Then his face creased into a pensive, yet brilliant smile.

"Nothing." He sat back in his seat coolly. "Hey," he said, his tone playful, "you need a ride?"

"I do," she played along with a grin. "I was just waiting for a car worthy enough to come along. This is such a small town, I was starting to think nothing would pass muster."

"Well, how about my baby? She's a beauty… second only to my girl back home. And that's saying something."

"I am not so sure," she teased. "She seems a bit… clunky, no?" She grinned. "But I must say, her driver more than makes up for that. Are you headed toward D.C.?"

"I am." He beckoned with his head. "Hop on in."

"Gladly," she responded, and she did so, slamming the door shut as she slid into the leather seat.

And then he gunned the engine, and the sped off in a cloud of noise and exhaust.


	16. Revelations

Gibbs sat next to his boat, mason-jar of scotch in his hand. The room was nearly pitch-black, the only light present struggled through the dusty windows. He barely noticed it, instead focusing on thoughts of the past, and regrets of what the future could have been.

"Stop it."

The sharp voice cut through the darkness, and Gibbs lashed out instinctively. But a strong hand caught his wrist before it could do any damage. For a moment, he froze, his somewhat drunken mind racing to identify the shadow. Then he realized that only one person would be able to sneak up on him and catch his hand as it whipped toward her.

"Ziva," he said. She released his hand, and it fell to his side.

"Stop it," she repeated.

"Stop what?"

"Beating yourself up over PFC Tomas Tomayo."

"You don't know anything about it." He hadn't meant his words to sound so sharp, but the alcohol in his system lessened his control on what came from between his lips.

"I know more than you think," she replied, unfazed by his behavior. "My research for the dossiers on the team was very thorough." He didn't respond. "I know you went to Colombia in 1990 as part of a black ops mission, and that a drug lord named Castillo was sniped at that time. You were late returning to your rendezvous point, and when you were finally retrieved, you were injured, grievously so. I know that Tomas was born less than a year after you left Colombia. He knew your military ID number, with a G that had been added, which I deduced was something you thought of, so you would know who was trying to contact you." She paused, giving him a chance to respond. When he didn't, she carried on. "You were injured, in the middle of the jungle. Humans are pack animals, and we seek physical contact in times of stress—"

"She was already pregnant when I met her," he interrupted. Ziva processed the new information.

"And that disappoints you."

"What?" Her answered had taken him off guard.

"He is a Marine, a good man who has managed to rise above the gang influence of the streets to make himself better as a person. He reminds you of yourself, and your history with his mother makes you wish that you had been his father. The paternal instincts you have suppressed since Kelly's death have re-emerged and you are affected by them now. It is natural."

"It's not that—"

"It is part of it," she corrected. "You also feel guilty for killing his father."

"How did you know Castillo was his father?"

"I didn't," she said with a small smile. "You just told me." There was her perceptive streak again. He needed to be on the lookout for it more often. "You feel that you should have known they were in DC, so that you could support them. Perhaps raise Tomas, perhaps, to help make up for the fact you took away his father." Her voice became hard. "Stop."

"Ziver—"

"No, Gibbs. Killing Castillo was the best thing you could have done for Tomas."

"He should have been able to have had the stability of having his father around."

"You really are drunk if you honestly think that Castillo would have provided stability. Even if Castillo let Tomas live, and acknowledged him as his son, Tomas' life would still be difficult. He would have had no chance to escape the world of drugs, even if he wanted to."

"I killed his father—"

"No, you didn't." Ziva moved to where she was standing directly in front of him."Sharing DNA with someone does not automatically make them family." Her voice softened. "I know that better than most. It has taken me a long time to realize that I am not my father. And I know that even though I call Eli David my father, he has hardly filled the traditional role of one.

A father is not just the man who married your mother. A father is someone who cares for you, and whom you care for. He is someone you can admire, whom you find worthy of modeling yourself after. You, Gibbs, are lucky to have your role model be the man who shares your blood. And Tomas Tomayo is lucky to have had stories of you while growing up. He became a Marine, Gibbs, because his childhood hero was one.

_You_ are his father, Gibbs, not Castillo. You should be proud of helping to create the opportunity for Rose and Tomas to get away from drug trafficking world." Her hand reached out to palm his cheek. "He honors you, Jethro. There is no shame in that."

His arms snaked around her slender waist pulling her close to him. He pressed his face into her midriff, and he felt her hand cradle the back of his head while her free arm embraced his shoulders. Her touch was comforting, and he felt the turmoil within him fade.

"Thank you," he said. He pulled back slightly to look up at her. "You shouldn't have had to find out about Rose and Tomas like that." She smiled at him.

"I suppose we are even now." At that, Gibbs' grin joined hers.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed. She sent him a sharp look.

"You should know by now that I am always right," she said. "Marines are supposed to be quick learners, no?"

"Uh huh. But that fact gets trumped by what they say about old dogs."

"I have heard that one, actually." They looked at each other as a comfortable silence fell. She ran her hand through his silver hair tenderly before she looked into his piercing blue eyes. "Feel better?" she asked quietly. Gibbs got to his feet and pulled her into a hug.

"Yes," he responded. "Always do, when you're around."


	17. Desert Moon

Gibbs leaned over McGee's shoulder to look intently at the computer screen. The shape of a house and a smoking chimney clearly discernable in the satellite feed. He quickly made a decision.

"Dinozzo, you and McGee are working the case from here." He handed the senior field agent a sheet of paper. "Ziva, go home, pack."

"Where am I going?" she asked, surprised. Her voice was clearly inquisitive, trying to think of what he intended.

"_We_," he emphasized, "are going to Arizona." He glanced over at her just in time to see her eyes light up with excitement.

"Okay." Her voice was calm, disguising her enthusiasm.

"Boss, shouldn't I go?" Tony asked. Gibbs barely refrained from smacking the back of the Italian's head as his voice took on its familiar whine. "I mean, I am senior field agent, after all."

"Dinozzo, if I wanted you to come with me, I would have said so," Gibbs said sharply, heading towards the elevator. "I need you here to head the investigation on this end." As he hit the call button for the elevator, he heard Ziva chime in as well.

"Think of it this way, Tony: at least you'll be able to take that call you've been drowning on about."

"Droning, Zee-vah," he heard as the doors opened and he entered, waiting for the doors to close. "And it's not just a phone call… it's my life-changing moment—" Tony's voice was cut off as the doors slid shut, leaving the Marine in blissful silence. He took the opportunity to finally grin.

Sometimes, he really liked being the boss.

Gibbs got out of the rented SUV and shot a glance over at his companion as she also stepped out into the dry Arizona air. She pulled her sunglasses down off the top of her head and over her brown eyes. They were both dressed casually; her in a long sleeved black shirt and jeans, and him in a sleeveless fleece over a white long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans.

As he watched, Ziva took a deep breath, and he saw her close her eyes behind her sunglasses as she savored the desert air. It was then that he remembered that she must have grown up in regions like this; flat and dry with crisp breezes as the wind traveled across the land. She caught him looking at her and cocked her head to the side in silent question. He remained silent though, as the local sheriff approached.

"Sheriff Boyd?" Gibbs asked as the man came to greet them. At the sheriff's affirmation, the Marine continued. "Special Agent Gibbs." The older man nodded, and then shifted a skeptical eye towards Ziva.

"Officer David," she said, offering her hand. The sheriff grasped it, but his expression quickly turned condescending.

"David… is that Arabic?" Gibbs saw Ziva tense in indignation, but she kept her features carefully under control as the sheriff turned to Gibbs. "I would have thought even a city cop like you would know better than to bring a female on a trail ride." Both NCIS agents froze, not used to such blatant sexism. Seeing Ziva's hand slowly drift towards the knife at her belt, Gibbs spoke quickly.

"Officer David is more than capable, Sheriff Boyd. And I'd be careful of what you assume; this female could, and probably will, kick your ass." He felt no need to soften his words. He resented the pomp of the sheriff's bigotry on both a personal and professional level. Knowing he would probably never need to work with the sheriff again after the case finished, he felt no need to make any measures to hide his displeasure.

Sensing that he was walking on thin ice, the sheriff abandoned the topic, instead proclaiming that they needed to get on the trail. He quickly unloaded the horses, revealing two chestnuts and a bay. The larger of the chestnuts was clearly agitated, shaking its head to and fro with a whinny. Ziva quickly went to it, concern filling her brown eyes, but as she approached, the horse reared, flailing its hooves. Gibbs felt his heart skip a beat as he saw them come dangerously close to her head, but the Israeli didn't even flinch.

She waited until the horse dropped to all fours again and swooped in gracefully until she was close enough to reach out stroke its muzzle. The horse pulled its head away at first, but Ziva recaptured it, and rhythmically continued to pet its soft nose, staring deep into its large eyes. After a few more moments, the horse relaxed, and began to investigate the bold woman in front of it.

The mare lipped the ends of Ziva's hair, making the Israeli smile. Apparently the other two began to feel left out, as they plodded over and nudged her from behind. Mildly surprised, she turned to look at them. Her eyes lit with amusement, and she abandoned the first to greet the newcomers. She stroked their jowls as they whuffed at her chest, taking in her scent. Her lips moved quickly, but he was too far away to hear what she was saying.

He stepped closer until he could discern her voice, and he discovered she was speaking in Hebrew. He grinned—her tone was friendly and familiar, as if she were talking to an old friend. The quadrupeds continued to nudge her, nickering and huffing, as if they were speaking back.

"I stand corrected." The voice to Gibbs' right made him turn to see the sheriff watching the interaction as well. "The lady certainly has a way with horses. And that first one is usually downright mean with strangers." The mare in question now had its head over Ziva's shoulder, vying for attention. Gibbs didn't respond, instead choosing to watch for a few more minutes. Then he straightened and spoke.

"Let's get going so we can make some headway before dark. Ziva!" he called, raising his voice. She looked over at him. "Mount up!" she nodded in response, and then went into the trailer to grab a saddle. Gibbs followed, then went to claim a horse. He could have sworn the bay he ended up with stamped in disappointment, as if it would have preferred Ziva as a rider. But it remained still and compliant as it waited for him to put a saddle on its back.

Ziva ended up with the skittish mare she had first approached. The Western-style saddle in her arms was large and seemed to dwarf her petite frame, but she ably lifted it to place it gently on the horse's back. When she went to cinch the billet strap around the horse's trunk, she paused. As Gibbs watched, she straightened abruptly and turned to the horse's head, which was craning to eye her. She gave it an impatient, though somewhat amused, glare.

"None of that," she said. The mare nickered in response. Gibbs glanced at its midsection, and recognized the familiar bulge—it had taken a deep breath, hoping to force Ziva to cinch the saddle too loosely on its back. If she had gotten in the saddle with it improperly cinched, the saddle would have slid down the mare's side, making the woman fall to the ground.

When the horse didn't respond to her command, Ziva shrugged and gave the mare a swift knee to gut. The air it had been holding in its lungs was expelled, and Ziva quickly cinched the saddle properly onto its back. Making sure it had settled properly, the Israeli then went to the horse's head. She pulled on bridle until the horse's ear was level with her lips. She whispered something, to which the horse nickered. Then Ziva smiled, and turned, catching Gibbs' glance as she did so. She arched an eyebrow as if daring him to comment. When he didn't, she shrugged nonchalantly, and then put her foot in the stirrup. She swung herself up with ease, quickly settling into the leather.

Gibbs couldn't help but notice that she was completely at ease on the mare. He continued to eye her as he mounted his own horse. There was a spark in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. Anticipation, comfort, joy, and… freedom. Her body had seemed to meld to the horse's frame, and as it shifted, she compensated without thought, keeping her balance expertly.

He guided his own mount toward the Israeli, who was currently surveying their surroundings from her new vantage point. Normally, he knew she would be searching for threats and taking note of exits in case of emergency, but her expression told him she wasn't searching for anything now. She took a deep breath as he came alongside her, and her eyes closed contentedly as she tasted the crisp Arizona air.

"You're pretty good with horses," Gibbs said to her, his tone casual. "Sheriff says your mount can be ornery." She looked at him with a smile.

"She's just an attention hog. She thinks she's prettier than all the other horses." Upon seeing his quizzical look, she continued, her grin widening. "My uncle bred Arabians. I used to help him train them. After them, these babies are just big sweethearts."

"And the thing with the billet strap?" he asked. "Was that your horse being a sweetheart?"

"She was just having a little fun. Nothing we couldn't handle. And honestly, I can't say I blame her. Did you see the trailer the sheriff brought them in?" The pitch of her voice had dropped so the sheriff couldn't overhear. "Horses should never be transported like that. These horses know that, and they have every right to try and throw him." Her eyes had become hard, and he knew she wanted to do more than see him get thrown.

"Down, girl," Gibbs said. "We need him to get us to the artist." He had noticed that the trailer was indeed not as conventional as others he had seen. It was dark on the inside, with not many windows, but the inside had seemed perfectly ventilated when he himself had gone in, so it hadn't seemed to be much of a problem. It seemed that Ziva had a tender heart when it came to horses.

The sheriff gave the signal to move out, and started off at quick trot. Sending Gibbs one last look, Ziva clicked her tongue to her horse, and the mare followed the older man. Gibbs brought up the rear, taking the opportunity to admire Ziva's form in the saddle.

Her posture was relaxed, her legs following the curve of the horse's back. She gripped the reins loosely with one hand, her elbow remaining relaxed as she gave the horse room to move. Almost immediately they went up an incline, and she shifted her weight forward, keeping her back straight as gravity attempted to pull her back over the horse's rump. The force of gravity had no chance, really; Ziva moved as if one with the horse, and Gibbs couldn't help letting his mind wander to something a little less… case-relevant.

As the sun got closer and closer to the western horizon, he knew that they weren't going to make it to the artist's house that day. He had briefly argued with the sheriff, knowing that ultimately, the man was ultimately right, but sited reasons that didn't follow. When the sheriff had mentioned that riding in the dark would be dangerous for the horses, Ziva's eyes had shot to him in skepticism. Then she looked at Gibbs and rolled her eyes; horses had superior night vision, and if taken at a slow enough pace, the horses would be able to manage the trail easily.

But ultimately, Gibbs was actually grateful for the chance to spend the night outdoors. As he watched her dismount smoothly, he briefly wondered if Ziva had ever been camping. Sure, she had most likely spent nights outdoors as part of her Mossad training, and in conditions far more extreme and unpleasant than this mild Arizona night. But had she ever done it for fun, in pleasant conditions, with friends and family? He suddenly had an image of Ziva eating a roasted marshmallow in front of the fire, with a drop of gooey sweetness at the corner of her mouth. The picture made him smile as he dismounted, and stayed with him as helped set up camp.

As dusk fell, they settled underneath a rocky outcropping that jutted from the desert floor. A few rocks had shifted and settled to create a fairly deep overhang that easily fit the three of them and their tack. The horses were left to their own devices outside, with a pail of water and a bucket of grain. They had found enough wood for a small fire, and had cooked up a can of beans to share. Gibbs had worried that Ziva might not eat them, but she had quickly informed him that she had not kept kosher for years.

Halfway through their dinner of warm beans, the satellite phone began to ring. Gibbs had answered it quickly, as the shrill ringing echoed within their rocky shelter and grated in their ears. As Abby began to update him on the investigation back in Washington, he drifted from the overhang and into the cool night air, away from the reverberating rocks.

When he was done, he hung up the phone and made his way back to the fire. As his eyes readjusted to the flickering light, he noticed that the sheriff was sitting on his own—Ziva was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Ziva?" he asked, feeling a slight flurry of concern at her sudden disappearance.

"She left right about the time you did," he replied. "I figured she was either joining you or taking a leak." Mild irritation filled Gibbs at the sheriff's gruff vernacular, but he let it slide. He left the outcropping again, intent on locating her.

He checked the horses first to make sure she wasn't with them, but they were alone, munching contentedly on the sparse tufts of stiff grass that spotted the ground. Then he walked a perimeter around the outcropping. In all it was no more than a 50 foot circumference and he was able to quickly determine that she was not there either.

He paused, gazing out over the flat landscape. He searched for any sign of movement against the horizon, but nothing presented itself. He was not overly concerned about her disappearance; after all, she could have just gone to relieve herself. They hadn't encountered any dangerous cliffs or caverns she could fall off or into, and there hadn't been a single howl or snarl since they had set up camp, which made the chance of an animal attack highly unlikely. No, it was mostly curiosity that spurred him on now, wondering what she could be doing out here. He detected a low intermittent buzz in his ear, and it took him a minute or two to realize that it wasn't really a buzz.

He shifted position, and as he did the sound focused, and his keen ears realized that the sound's pitch was shifting melodically. His face broke into a grin as he recognized the sound; Ziva was singing. The origin of the sound was close, and he finally realized that she must have climbed the outside of the outcropping, and was now somewhere among its crags. Before he moved to follow her up the rocky face, he went and retrieved one of the blankets they had brought with them. He tucked it under his arm, and began to climb until the rock evened out to a relatively flat plane.

He followed the sound of Ziva's voice, eventually finding her lying on her back, looking up at the night sky. As soon as he stopped to listen, she ceased her singing and craned her neck to look at him. He half-expected her to be irritated at him for trying to creep up on her, but he was pleasantly surprised when instead she smiled at him.

The star- and moonlight shining down on her illuminated her skin, bathing her in liquid silver. Her hair seemed to glow from where it was pooled on the rock underneath her head. His heart sped up slightly when he saw her smile, which he took to be an invitation to sit and join her. He unfurled the blanket he had under his arm and draped it over her before he sat and lay back next to her.

She tugged the blanket over him as well, insulating them both from the chilly night air. He reached out his left hand, positioning his arm to act as a pillow for her head. His arm curled against her, pulling her against him in a one-armed hug. Her right hand reached across her torso and under her left arm, taking his hand in hers. She held onto it, leaving them in an intimate yet casual embrace.

"You should sing more often," he said finally.

"I only sing when I am particularly moved, or am forced to do so."

"Forced?"

"Yes," she said. "Synagogue, when I was younger, and in Morocco—" The mention of the country caused the image of Ziva lying unconscious and bloody on a stretcher to flash through his mind.

"You were singing in Morocco?" he asked incredulously, banishing the image from his thoughts.

"Yes. My cover was a night club singer. That was why I was in that awful gown."

"I would have liked that dress," he said, his voice lowering considerably, "in a much more… intimate… setting."

"Only as long as you took if off me fairly quickly." When he shot her a look, she shrugged. "You try wearing it and then see how much you like it. They had to use tape." He chuckled, briefly wondering what the hell she would need tape for, but he refrained from asking, allowing silence to settle over them.

"And your singing just now," he said after a few long minutes. "Was that forced?"

"No," she said simply. He didn't speak again, knowing that if she wanted to elaborate she would, and if she didn't, wouldn't. He could only hope she would let him in. Luckily, she perceived his curiosity, and decided to throw him a bone. "It is amazing how deserts so far apart share the same stars." He shot her another look, which she returned. "Seeing this many stars remind me of home." He didn't have to ask which home she was referring to; Washington DC and this kind of night sky were mutually exclusive.

"So you really are a country bumpkin," he said with a grin.

"I do not know what a bumpkin is." Her voice was matter of fact. "But I grew up in Tel Aviv, which is a very sophisticated city, contrary to what your tone implies." Her voice softened when Gibbs chuckled. "It is a very beautiful city." She paused, and Gibbs knew that something had changed. "But sometimes…" Her voice was softer. "Sometimes, it was nothing more than a gilded cage." Silence returned for a moment, but Gibbs knew better than to fill it with sound. She needed to be the next one to speak. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long.

"When we were growing up, we were always watched. At first it was just our parents wanting to protect us from people who might try to use us to gain leverage against Mossad. As we grew older, we began to be on guard to look out for ourselves. We were always on our best behavior: our parents' superiors would sometimes observe us without advanced notice. They would use our behavior as criteria with which to judge our parents' ability to enforce discipline in their personal lives.

"And then we would be observed as Mossad began to recruit us. They would see us interact with each other, see who wielded the most authority, see who stood up to who and for what. Most of the time we were fine with it; it was what we had grown up with. But in our teenage years, we saw other kids our age breaking free. They were spreading their wings when we were getting drawn deeper into the world of Mossad. We were excited to join Mossad, to start our service to our country, but there were times we wanted to… to just act our age." She sighed, gazing up at the stars above them.

"We would go to the desert when we needed to get away," she continued. "We always knew the quickest way to get there, and we never met in the same place more than once. We were able to let go, out in the middle of nowhere. No one could see us, or judge us. We could have fun, and be ourselves. In the city, we were who our parents wanted us to be; in the desert, we were… free." Anyone else would sound bitter at this point, but Gibbs heard only nostalgia in her voice. She had focused on the good points of her childhood, though many people wouldn't have been able to get past the rigid world of being a child of Mossad.

She sounded at ease, remembering the good times with her friends. He had once said that Mossad was one big happy family; he hadn't realized that he had been right in more ways than one. They must have relied on each other greatly, being so different from their peers. She had never spoken of the people she knew in Israel, and Gibbs wondered if she ever missed her friends while she was in America. However, he knew better than to ask. Instead, he decided to match her mood.

"I always wondered if you Mossad kids were ever party animals," he said. "Now I know." He grinned as Ziva turned toward him, looking as if she were going to say something scathing in return. However, her tone was casual as she replied.

"We were not just 'Mossad kids', as you say. We were all intended for Komemiute." His mildly surprised expression seemed to satisfy her, because she then lay back down on his shoulder, a smirk on her lips. "And you have no idea just how well we partied."

Gibbs burst into laughter, and the uncharacteristic display of mirth made Ziva smile, before she too joined in. Their mirth rang out across the desert, and Ziva's echoed back to Gibbs' ears until it chimed like crystal in his ears. She had never laughed like that before, and he wondered what it was about this particular stretch of desert that allowed her, and him, to lower their inhibitions so much. Whatever it was, he would have to try to recreate it somehow back in DC; this laughter was too beautiful to hear only once.

"I'd like to have seen that," he said as his laughter faded. His thumb began tracing circles against her ribs.

"Maybe you will," she replied softly. "We still meet sometimes, when there are enough of us in Tel Aviv. Those times are far and few between, as those of us that are left are sent on assignment fairly often."

"When was the last time you saw them?" he asked, curious about this aspect of her life. He was well-aware of the privilege of being allowed this glimpse into her past. The few times he had tried to imagine what her childhood had been like, he had always envisioned an isolated little girl who had perpetually striven to meet her father's expectations. He was glad to know that she had indeed had friends, and that they'd had moments not completely ruled by their parents' involvement with Mossad.

"Just recently, actually," she answered, "when I visited Israel for a week last month. The first night I was in town, I was informed that quite a few of us were in town. Several left the next morning for another assignment, but… it was almost like how it used to be." She paused. "You would like them, I think."

"Well, it'd be great to meet them, if it wasn't for the fact I'm pretty high up on Mossad's shit list."

"Do not flatter yourself, Jethro," she said, her tone playful. "Mossad has much greater threats than you. You are only number one on my father's shit list."

"What, Director David is not the voice of Mossad anymore?"

"He does hold a great deal of influence over Mossad, but most of the personnel are not so traditional as he is. Ari Haswari was a traitor; to them, it does not matter who killed him, as long as he paid for his crimes." She paused, and Gibbs thought the shift in the conversation's direction had dampened her spirits, but her voice was strong and clear when she continued. "And my friends know better than most that my father is not the shining star Mossad makes him out to be. They are the least likely to be influenced by my father's opinion of you. They won't hate you for what happened to Ari."

"They sound like good friends, Ziver," he said. She leaned her head into him comfortably.

"Yes," she said. "We do not share a traditional friendship, but they are indeed good friends."

Silence settled over them again, and Gibbs knew that this time the conversation was over. But he wasn't disappointed. He had learned more about Ziva in the past ten minutes than he ever had before, and he felt… relieved. He was surprised at how much it meant to him to know that her childhood had not been as cold as he had envisioned.

He gazed up at the moon. It was almost full, and shining almost painfully bright. He was used to the moon in DC, where it was almost always obscured by wither clouds or pollution. There was such exquisite detail etched on its face; it was almost as if it had been hand-sculpted before being mounted on the midnight sky. Gibbs' knew that his thoughts' sudden eloquence was due solely to warm form beside him. If it had been Tony on this trip with him, the Marine barely would have spared a moment to sneer at the moon before bunking down in the overhang.

He wasn't sure how long he had been staring at the moon when Ziva sat up slightly and twisted toward him, climbing halfway onto his chest.

"I wonder if the sheriff has started to wonder about us yet," she said, gazing intently at him. Her black hair cascaded over shoulders, the moonlight turning it into a pewter halo that framed her in his vision. He could smell her fragrance, the flowery spice scent that was unique to her washing over him on the gentle breeze that tickled their skin. Suddenly, he realized that he didn't much care about the sheriff.

He rolled toward her, forcing her to roll back onto the rock face. He cradled her skull with his hand, reveling in the feel of her silky hair in his fingers. He looked down into her starry eyes, and what he saw made his gut start to burn. A slow smirk twisted her lips, and her expression shifted to one of feral intensity. He ran his free hand sensually down her side before he guided her head up to plant a kiss on her lips. She pressed into him, her hands curling into his shirt and pulling him even closer. When they parted for air, their eyes met before Gibbs spoke in a husky voice.

"Let him wonder."


	18. Not So Silent

A/N: This is just a short little prequel to the next part of the episodic "Something More" storyline. I'm in the middle of midterms, so this is all I can manage until Thursday. My next update (the second part of this chapter) will either be Thursday night or Friday, I promise. Sorry for the lapse in updates!

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Gibbs slid behind the steering wheel and shut the door quickly. Glancing to his right, he wasn't surprised to see that Ziva was already shivering in the passenger seat. Her small nose was red, as were her cheeks, and quickly disappearing snowflakes peppered her dark hair. She was bundled up in a large puffy coat and a scarf, her arms crossed over her chest in an attempt to conserve heat.

"You okay, Ziver?" He asked. She glowered in his direction, clearly miserable.

"You Americans are insane," she said, her voice accusatory. "Ever since I have come here, all I have heard is 'I can't wait for winter' or 'Just wait until the snow comes.' Well, we have snow, an ungodly amount, and the only thing that has changed is that I am freezing!

And Tony will not shut up about 'snow days', which makes no sense, because I cannot imagine why anyone would want to be dazed by snow. Oh, and apparently, it is what makes winter 'the most wonderful time of the year', but it has succeeded in doing nothing but make me miserable!" She paused her tirade long enough to take a breath, and noticed Gibbs grinning at her.

"Would you like me to turn the heat on?" he asked. Not deigning to give him a verbal answer, she instead jabbed at the dials next to the car's radio. The heat turned on full blast, flooding them with warm air. She returned her gaze to Gibbs.

"The way you Americans go on and on about your snow made me thing that something about it made it different from all the other snow in the world. But no—there isn't. It is the same cold, wet sludge it is in Russia, and Germany, and Switzerland! And it is not a matter of me not being familiar with snow, because I am. I have done more than my share of operations in Russia, and they _always_ have snow. But _they, _at least, are sane about it! They hate the snow like normal people, and they count down the days until the summer comes and melts it all away for a few short months. They recognize it as the d—"

Her words were cut off as Gibbs' pressed his lips against hers. She froze in surprise for a moment or two, and then melted into his touch. When he pulled back, he found her looking at him quizzically.

"You're just so damn cute when you're pissed," he explained. She glared at him and playfully punched him on the arm. "Just as long as you're not pissed at me, that is."

"Oh sweetheart," she purred, her dulcet tone dangerously low. Gibbs didn't know if he should be alarmed at her quick mood-shift. "If I were ever pissed at you, you would not have a chance to see if I were _cute_ or not." She let a feral grin grace her lips. "You would be dead before you knew what hit you."

Though Gibbs knew that her statement was undeniably true, he only grinned. She would never kill him—she had told him so last weekend, while they had been lounging in their bed.

"I believe it," he responded casually. Satisfied, she sat back in her seat. "You ready to head out?" She sighed and nodded in response.

"As ready as I will ever be."

"I don't know why you're so nervous about this. Jackson has already met you, and as I recall, he adores you."

"I am not nervous!" she protested. "And last time, he met me as your employee, not your mate."

"Mate?" he asked, biting back a bark of laughter.

"In-laws _never_ get along, Jethro," she continued, not paying any mind to his outburst. "Jackson is not Jewish, which I suppose works in my favor, but—"

"Ziver," Gibbs interrupted. She looked at him. "If my father behaves the way you think he will—which he won't—then I will personally rip him a new one and immediately drive us back to DC." The Israeli sighed with an impetuous roll of her eyes.

"Fine. Just make sure you confiscate his shotgun before you tell him about us. It is very difficult to dodge buck-shot—trust me." Gibbs chuckled and turned the engine over. By this time, it was sweltering, and he was beginning to sweat. Ziva, however, looked perfectly comfortable, even in her thick coat. So instead of adjusting the heat flow, he simply removed his jacket and tossed it into the back seat. He pulled out into traffic and quickly found his way to the I-95 North. Ziva settled down into her seat, stretching her lean legs in anticipation for the long car ride.

"Oh, and Ziva," he said casually, "Stillwater got a foot and a half of snow last night." A stream of harsh-sounding Hebrew filled the small car, making Gibbs grin.

Perhaps Christmas this year was going to be fun after all.


	19. Not So Silent Pt 2

A/N: Here it is! FINALLY! The chapter I have promised you all. Many thanks to Gabi (I always look forward to your reviews, by the way!), Lincoln Six Echo, Ermintrude421, and everyone else who helped me out of my writer's block. I believe this chapter is the longest I have ever written, so I think I'm justified (a little) in the delayed posting. Enjoy!!

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Gibbs pulled into the familiar driveway five hours later. The snow had gotten worse as they had traveled farther north, and traffic conditions had slowed to a near crawl. Ziva had dozed off, but Gibbs didn't mind the resulting silence. Not that Ziva was ever over-talkative in the first place; in fact, after those first few attempts at assimilating to what she thought was American mannerisms, she had become nearly as silent in the car as he was.

Turning off the engine, he looked over at his lover as she began to stir. A second later, brown eyes could be seen under dark lashes. He gave a small half-smile, which she returned, her eyes becoming more alert. She did a quick 180o visual sweep. When she saw the snow, she sighed.

"We are in Stillwater, then." Her tone was somewhat unimpressed, but Gibbs didn't take offense. It didn't look like much to him either; it was near pitch-black and snowing heavily, so nothing but Jackson's porch-light was visible.

"Let's get going," Gibbs said. Ziva grabbed two overnight bags from the backseat, handing him his. They had packed light, knowing they wouldn't be able to stay more than just a couple days. They were making use of the three-day weekend the Director had given the major case squad, knowing that they couldn't both put in leave requests for the same day without arousing suspicion. Their eyes met once more, and this time Gibbs couldn't keep an excited smile from crossing his lips. Seeing his smile made her eyes light up, and she gave him a brilliant smile in return.

He leaned over and kissed her. Pulling away, blue eyes gazed intensely into brown.

"Thanks for coming with me," he said.

"I would not miss it for the globe," she replied. His grin grew at her mistake, and she quickly made the connection. She closed her eyes embarrassedly with a shake of her head. "That is not right—"

"It's close enough," he said. However, he knew that she would resent not being corrected. "World. You wouldn't miss it for the world." Her fingers pointed at him in the shape of a gun as she clucked her tongue with a wink.

"_That_ is it," she said. She looked at him, shooting him a flirty smile. "Well, should we get to the house before we get snowed in here?"

"Good idea," he said. They left the car simultaneously, braving the bitter cold. Gibbs saw Ziva burrow deeper into her coat as they sludged through the deep snow. As they approached the house, he tripped on the snow-hidden porch step. Ziva, miserable though she looked, was just as graceful as she usually was, nimbly avoiding the treacherous wood. She helped him onto the porch, generously not mentioning his uncharacteristic stumble.

Finding his footing again, he shuffled to the door and gripped the handle, not bothering to knock. He opened the door and ushered Ziva inside. He quickly followed, shutting the door behind him. He started brushing the snow off his shoulders as he called out.

"Hey Pops!" A rustle of movement from a room down the hall quickly alerted them to the older man's presence. He trundled out into the hall, searching out the source of the shout.

"Leroy!" The older man's eyes lit up at the sight of his son, who took a step forward to meet him. Crinkled eyes traveled to the unexpected female visitor. "Ziva!" The Israeli in question smiled warmly.

"Happy Christmas, Jackson," she offered. She reached out for a handshake, which the elder Gibbs grasped with an all too familiar raised eyebrow.

"My dear," he said, "I thought we worked past this the last time I had the last pleasure of your company." Gibbs knew that his father was expecting a hug from the woman, but Ziva did not, judging from her puzzled expression. The Marine shook his head when Jackson looked towards him in question, silently telling the older man to drop it. Even if Ziva realized what Jackson wanted, she would be less than comfortable giving the man a hug.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Jackson continued, picking up on his son's message. "Leroy, you didn't tell me you were bringing your lovely colleague."

"Last minute decision," Gibbs said. "Ziva didn't have anywhere to be for the holidays, so I recruited her to pull Stillwater duty with me."

"I'm flattered," Jackson said. "I didn't realize I warranted such attention."

"It was my pleasure to come, Jackson," Ziva jumped in. She shot Gibbs a questioning look; wasn't he going to explain exactly why she was here? Perhaps she had been mistaken. No, the twinkle in his eye told her that she was not wrong; he was simply doing things his way. Again.

"Well, come in, come in," Jackson said. "Jethro, show this beautiful lady to the guest room while I heat us up some eggnog."

Gibbs gladly obliged, taking Ziva's pack in his hand and leading the way up the stairs. Ziva followed as Jackson disappeared into the kitchen. As soon as they were alone in the empty bedroom, Ziva spoke.

"Are you _trying_ to throw me off?" Gibbs arched an eyebrow as he dumped their bags on the bed. "Am I supposed to act like your colleague, or your…" A kiss silenced her.

"Relax," Gibbs said, breaking away. "I will tell Jack. I just thought it would be a little awkward breaking the news the second we came in the door." Ziva looked a little sheepish.

"I suppose you are right," she conceded. "You should have given me a heads up though. This sort of thing is difficult enough without having to play games."

"Officer David," he said slowly, a sly smile spreading across his face, "is this your first time meeting potential in-laws?"

"This is the first time I've had to be introduced. I was already familiar with some of my other partners' families. I believe you once called Mossad 'one big happy family'; you were not far off in your assumption."

"Well, trust me. Jackson will be thrilled, and you will see that there's really nothing to worry about." Ziva looked at him skeptically.

"There is definitely something to be worried about."

"Oh?" he asked.

"I do not know what eggnog is…"

* * *

A couple hours later, and Ziva had become acquainted with the mysterious alcoholic holiday beverage. She was still not quite sure what it was, but Gibbs noticed that she had been gamely willing to try it. He was mildly impressed; quite a few Americans refuse to try eggnog flat out, finding the smell, or the texture, repulsive. In his experience, only those of the older generation drank it on any regular basis, even over the holidays. But Ziva drank it like a trooper, not conveying any distaste she may have towards the drink.

It wasn't long until Jackson brought out the Christmas cookies, small colorful things provided by one of the younger children in the neighborhood. Seeing them made Gibbs smile; he remembered being the one to donate them to the neighborhood elderly… It was strange to see how his father was now the recipient. He tuned back into the conversation when Jackson's tone changed.

"Oh, Ziva," the older Gibbs said, his voice apologetic, "you don't celebrate Christmas, do you? You must find all of this fairly rude of us."

"Not at all, Jackson," Ziva replied. "No, I do not celebrate the Christmas holiday, as I am Jewish, but I have noticed that in America, many of your holidays are less about religion than it is an excuse to celebrate with family and friends. And I have never observed the Christmas celebrations so closely before, and I am curious about the rituals Americans choose to respect or ignore in accordance with their culture." She smiled. "I am honored, and appreciative, to be welcomed in your celebrations." Silence fell for a moment, and then Jackson shot a look towards his son.

"Is she always so formal?"

"Only with people she respects, Dad," Gibbs responded. He wasn't about to mention that he himself wa impressed by the small monologue had just delivered. He bit back a smile as he wickedly wondered if she had rehearsed it. "Enjoy it while it lasts; it's only a matter of time until she gets to know the real Jackson Gibbs." A smirk softened the potentially damaging words, and Jackson merely rolled his eyes in response.

"I'm surprised you haven't already ruined her perception of me, son." He leaned toward Ziva conspiratorially. "The only reason he hasn't is because he knows that I have the goods on him, too."

"Goods?" Ziva asked.

"The dirt. Gossip," Gibbs explained. "Don't even think about breaking out the embarrassing childhood stories," he directed towards his father.

"Oh!" Ziva exclaimed happily. "American parents do that too!"

"Oh yes, my dear," Jackson said. "I have some real doozies about little Leroy." Ziva's Cheshire-cat grin matched his.

"I wish to hear these… doozies," she said. Seeing Gibbs' glare, she added, "But it will have to be while we are alone, I think. I do not think Gibbs would appreciate hearing them himself."

"We have more than enough time," the elder Gibbs assured her. "I'm good at coming up with reasons for Gibbs to leave the house." Jackson gave a rattling sigh. "Well, it's getting late, and unlike you young'uns, I don't have the stamina I used to. I'm off to bed."

As the elder man disappeared up the stairs, Gibbs looked at Ziva, who had pulled her socked feet up onto the couch cushion underneath her, cradling her mug of eggnog in her hands. He couldn't help but smirk.

"How do you like it?" he asked, motioning with his own mug. Ziva looked at him.

"It is disgusting," she said bluntly before grinning. "But I have tasted much worse." They lapsed into a comfortable silence as Ziva gazed around the room, observing all the pictures and knick-knacks that lined the walls. Gibbs watched her as sharp brown eyes took everything in, briefly wondering if she would tell him what was going through her head. A few moments later, and he realized that tonight was a lucky night for him.

"It seems… warmer, than it did the last time we were here," Ziva said. "I know that it does not make sense, as the last time we were here it was early autumn and now we have a monstrous amount of snow—"

"No," Gibbs interrupted, "you don't have to explain." He shrugged. "That's the power of Christmas." Ziva's head whipped towards him. Her eyebrow was arched in skepticism.

"I may be Jewish, but you do not honestly expect me to believe that Father Christmas has the ability to control the weather, do you?" she scoffed. "Come on, Jethro." Gibbs sat back in his chair with a roll of his eyes. Of course she translated _that_ literally.

"Ziva," he said, "I don't know much about what happens with Jews and Channukah, but here, something happens to people around Christmas time. People who would normally fight like cats and dogs coexist peacefully for the sake of Christmas. Some call it Christmas spirit, some call it goodwill towards man… but all I know is that the change is tangible." He held up his hand to cut off Ziva's protests before they could even start. "It can't really be explained, Ziver, and that's part of the magic of Christmas. Even in a society where people doubt the existence of God on a regular basis for the sake of knowledge and reason, people use the time between Thanksgiving and New Year's to bury the hatchet and help others."

A few moments passed before Ziva responded. Gibbs could see the wheels turning in her head, trying to make sense of what he had said. Religion was one of the many mysteries of Ziva David, he had discovered. Sometimes she was devout in her faith, steadfast in her support of her God. But many other times she eschewed things she could not see, touch, or understand in favor of the tangible. He had been surprised last October, when she had been accepting of the idea of the ship being haunted. It had turned out that she was sensing an actual person, but she hadn't known that at the time.

"Why would you bury a hatchet?" she asked finally. Gibbs looked at her, and he knew that she wasn't going to share her thoughts with him any more than she already had, which meant that she had not made up her mind on what she thought about the paradigm of Christmas. He knew better than to take any sort of offense. With an amused smile, he briefly explained the idiom. They talked late into the night, keeping their conversation casual and light. Then they had retired to their own rooms, sharing only a quick kiss before separating for the night.

The next morning dawned in a near silence that Gibbs found mildly disconcerting. Living in DC, he was used to shouts and car horns, people going about their daily lives. But the silence he awoke to that morning was deafening. But then he opened the window curtains, and he realized that he should not have been surprised at all.

Blinding snow covered everything in sight. Trees naked of their leaves were shrouded in the white powder, causing their branches to droop from the weight of it. A glance at the driveway made him wince; the car was nearly entirely snowed in, with only a patch of paint here and there to remind him the car was actually blue, not white. Ziva was not going to be happy once she heard that their journey home would be a bit later than they had anticipated.

It was still early, so the snow was unmarred by footprints and tire-tracks. He knew better than to think it would remain that way though. It was no longer snowing, and Stillwater residents were notorious for taking full advantage of their snow. In just a few hours, children and adults alike would be swarming the neighborhood, sledding down hills, making snowmen, building forts for the inevitable snowball fights.

He grinned as some memories of his own childhood rose to the surface. One winter he and a few of his buddies had teamed up and ambushed a group of bullies that had been picking on some of the younger kids. They had used rudimentary guerilla tactics, using snow-laden shrubs and trees as cover as they pelted the bigger boys with snowballs. Gibbs chuckled when he remembered beaning one kid straight in the face; the resulting expression of shock, indignation, and confusion had cracked him up for months afterward.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. A mischievous smile twisted his lips before he turned from the window and quickly dressed in an old shirt and paint-stained jeans over his boxers and tattered t-shirt. And then he was making his way downstairs, catching up with his father at the foot of the stair.

"Morning Pops," he said. He couldn't help but notice how bright his voice sounded, even to him. His father must have noticed it too, an expression of pleasant surprise on his wizened face.

"Good morning, son," Jackson replied. "Slept well, I see."

"Uh-huh," came the distracted response. "You seen Ziva yet?"

"No, sir. I remember that little demonstration you put on for me last time. I figure if she's not up yet, I won't be the one to wake her." Gibbs grinned.

"Good decision, Pops. I'm sure she appreciates it." Gibbs took a deep breath, his keen nose sensing a subtle fragrance. "Or she would, if she weren't already up." And then he passed his father and walked down the hall to the kitchen.

Pushing open the swinging door, he was treated to a view of Ziva leaning on the kitchen counter, sipping from a steaming mug. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and an old NCIS t-shirt that Gibbs recognized as one of his own. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her curls wild but, for once, not frizzy. The effect was dramatic, and his heart sped up slightly.

She looked up as he entered. Sending a warm 'good morning', she turned and poured another mug of coffee and handed it to him. When the door swung open a moment later to admit Jackson, she smiled.

"Good morning, Jackson," she said, her voice smooth. "I made coffee, I hope you do not mind."

"Do not ever be sorry for making coffee," the older man said. "Jethro got his addiction for coffee somewhere, and it was certainly not his mother. The only way I'd mind you making coffee is if you didn't make enough for me." This last was said in such a good-hearted tone that Ziva could not help but smile as she poured yet another mug of the caffeinated liquid. Bright eyes watched the elder Gibbs take a sip, waiting for a reaction. She did not have to wait long.

"Sweet Mary!" Jackson said. His voice was not upset, but appreciative. "Miss David, are you sure this is coffee?" He took another sip. "This is absolutely delicious; I have never had coffee that tasted like this." Ziva's smile broadened.

"It is either Ziva or Officer David, Jackson. And Officer David makes it sound like I am about to arrest you, so please, call me Ziva. And it is a secret family recipe."

"You wouldn't even tell me, an old man, how to improve his daily cup of coffee?"

"I could," came the response, her voice dropping to become completely serious, "but then I'd have to kill you."

Jackson froze as he remembered just how handy with gun she had been the last time the Israeli had stayed in his home. He had no doubt that she could cause severe bodily harm if she so wished; after all, she had won the respect of his son, and he of all people knew how difficult it was to do that. He wasn't sure how to respond, but was rescued by the sight of her ivory grin re-emerging.

"Relax, Pops," Gibbs said, clearly amused. "She was joking. Right, Ziva?"

"Of course," she responded, her voice light. "I would never consciously hurt you, Jackson. You already know not to sneak up on me, so that reduces your chances of experiencing pain at my hands even more." She winked at him. "But I am still not telling you what I put in the coffee."

"And still you torture me," Jackson said, quickly recovering. "Jethro, has she made this coffee for you before?" Gibbs paused mid-sip. Why did his father think she would have had the opportunity to make coffee for him? But then, perhaps he was reading too much into the question. Besides, he wasn't hiding their relationship from his dad anyway.

"Nope," he responded. And it was the truth. He had never tasted coffee like this before, not in any of the mornings they woken up together and shared a pot of coffee. "You're special," he added. His eyes flicked over at Ziva, and he saw a smug smile come his direction. Oh, they were definitely going to have a conversation later.

"So what do you have planned for our guest today, Leroy?" Jackson asked. Ziva's eyebrow hiked up in interest at the turn in conversation.

"Well, there is a lot of snow on the ground," the Marine observed. "I was thinking she might appreciate a taste of a true American Christmas." Ziva's eyes got wide.

"I am _not_ going out and about in that," she declared forcefully. "I have been in worse, yes, but that was because I had no choice. I _do_ have a choice here, and there is no way—"

"Actually, Officer David," Gibbs interrupted, "you do not have a choice. You will be accompanying me outdoors today, and you will get to see Stillwater at its finest." He watched the Israeli straighten herself in challenge. "Don't make me turn it into an order, David." She paused, and her eyes raked over his face, as if searching for an indication of… something. Whatever it was she was looking for, she apparently didn't find it, and responded to his authority.

"I should go put on something warmer then," Ziva said slowly. She left her mug of coffee on the counter, and with one last look in his direction, curious this time, exited the kitchen. Jackson, who had watched the exchange in silent curiosity, let his eyes follow her as she left before shifting his attention to his son, who was taking a swig of coffee. The mug only partially hid his smug grin.

"Son," Jackson said slowly. Gibbs looked up at his father. "Why did you bring Ziva here?"

"She didn't have any—"

"Yeah, I heard your excuse the first time you said it," Jackson interrupted. "Give your old man a little credit, will you?" Gibbs remained silent, which his father took as an invitation to continue. "I think you have ulterior motives, young man, and I didn't raise my son to be sneaky in his romantic intentions."

"Dad—"

"Just give me a minute, Leroy. This is more than a boss not wanting his employee to be alone for the holidays. An _employer_ doesn't force his _employee_ to go and have snowball fights. I like Ziva, and even though I am sure she can take care of herself, but I don't want to see you playing around. She is a fine woman, and doesn't deserve any bullshit from you. I raised you better than that." Silence followed as Gibbs waited to be sure his father was done.

"Trust me Dad," he said finally. "Bullshit is the farthest thing from my mind." He downed the rest of his coffee and rinsed his cup, leaving it in the sink. Then he left, with only the smallest of grins belying his enjoyment of his father's puzzled expression.

Less than an hour later, Gibbs had coaxed Ziva into an old pair of snow-pants he had found in his closet. She balked initially, but eventually acquiesced after looking at him intently again. He found it bizarre, how she seemed to find something that made the unpleasant prospect of walking around in snow worthwhile. He was thankful for it, however, and wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After she had grudgingly put on gloves and warm woolen hat, they journeyed outdoors into the crisp, frigid air. Along the street, Gibbs saw the neighborhood kids getting started. Three houses down, a snowman was in the process of being built. Though in the first few minutes Ziva seemed unhappy, her curiosity soon won out and she began observing the street's activities with interest. Her brown eyes darted from house to house, taking inventory of which seemed active, and which were not. Gibbs watched in his usual fascination as he could see the wheels in her head turning.

Soon she had taken the lead, moving down the driveway through the thick snow towards the street before turning left to head to the town center. He followed with a grin as her instincts took her to the center of the growing flurry of activity. They strolled together side by side, and every now and then Gibbs would help her through a particularly deep snow bank. It irritated her, he knew, but her small 5'6'' frame was dwarfed by some of the worst drifts. His easy grin lessened the blow to her ego and soon she was grinning along with him.

Every so often a bright red cardinal would flit across their path, its color a stark contrast to the blank canvas the snow created. They approached the town square, and found that in this section of town the roads had been plowed, making it much easier to walk. Just as they were passing in front of the gazebo, Ziva froze. Gibbs noticed a few steps later, and turned back to look at her.

To anyone else, it would have appeared that Ziva had merely paused; her stance seemed casual and relaxed, but Gibbs knew that she was coiled tightly, ready to spring at a moment's notice. Her eyes swept the street carefully, and he knew that her instincts had picked up on something, and she was trying to identify the threat. He did a visual sweep as well, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary, which only compounded the concern he felt welling up inside of him.

The square was becoming more crowded, mostly with kids. Any altercation would involve too many noncombatants, and the situation could turn deadly, especially if the threat was skilled enough to hide themselves from both her Mossad instincts and his Marine training. He stepped toward her, hoping to converse with her quietly, but he didn't get the chance.

She lunged toward him with the speed and grace of a cat, her arm outstretched. Her hand halted barely an inch from his face, but he didn't flinch. When she pulled her hand away, he saw her gloved fingers were wrapped around a tightly packed snowball.

"Whoa!"

The awed exclamation came from about twelve feet in the direction the projectile had come from. Ziva's eyes shot to the amazed youth, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she focused on the shocked expression of a young boy, maybe fifteen, which was tinged pink from the cold. He wore a red knit cap with a yarn pom on the top, and Gibbs grinned when he realized that the cap only made him an easier target. Then he shifted his attention to Ziva, wondering how she would respond to the attack. He didn't have to wait long, as in the next moment, the hand holding the snowball wound back behind her shoulder, and then fired the weapon with uncanny accuracy.

The force of her throw sent the snowball in a near-straight line before it impacted the center of youth's face. He reacted, but it was too late, and he got a mouthful of icy snow. His breath puffed from between his snowy lips as he blinked in shock, water dripping from his chin. The next moment, six more heads popped up from below the snow line; Gibbs realized that they had dug pits in the deep snow, effectively hiding them from sight.

"Dude!"

"Aw man! She totally nailed you!"

"Busted, man!"

Their calls and jibes made Gibbs chuckle. But then in the next instant, another snowball exploded against the side of head of the boy nearest Red Hat. The boy's raucous laughter stopped immediately as the force of the blow knocked him off-balance and he fell into the snow surrounding his hide-out. Gibbs' gaze snapped to Ziva; he hadn't even seen the Israeli form the snowball, or the windup before the throw. His brow arched in pleasant surprise at her newfound skill. She didn't return the gaze though, instead focusing her entire attention on the remaining five boys. Her lips curved into a feral grin, and her eyes were alight at the prospect of a challenge.

When the remaining boys vanished into their individual snow-pits, she also sprang into action, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the gazebo. Unfortunately, the gazebo itself was still surrounded by deep snow drifts, which hindered their movements. They barely managed to wade behind the gazebo before the first snowballs started heading in their direction.

The two of them pressed their backs against the wooden slats of the gazebo rail. After sweeping the area in front of them for any more potential threats, of which he found none, he turned back to Ziva. Her nose and cheeks had the slightest tint of red to them under her tan complexion, the only visible effect the bitter cold had on her. It gave her cheeks a cherubic glow, and the twinkle in her eyes transformed her face to one reminiscent of a child at a state fair. And it was then that he knew he had made the right decision to force her to come out into the snow with him.

"How do you suggest we deal with this, Officer David?" he said through his grin, his breath puffing out into the cold air.

"They have had time to prepare, so it is unlikely that they will run out of ammunition quickly," she said, not taking her eyes from the target. "They are familiar with the layout of the town, so it is vital that we keep them from abandoning their positions." She turned to survey their surroundings. "We need to reinforce our position, and acquire firepower of our own. We will have to work quickly," she continued, as snowballs continued to shoot into the snow around them. She grinned. "Are you familiar with the manufacturing of snowballs?" she asked him.

"Uh huh," he responded, wondering what she had in mind.

"All right. You start making some, and I will retrieve the ones they have thrown, but have not impacted." He looked at her. "They should still be whole, if they landed in the snow. It will save us time and energy to reuse the ones they miss with." Gibbs nodded in comprehension and began to scoop up handfuls of snow, deftly packing them into compact spheres. He worked quickly, and soon had a healthy pile of snowballs as Ziva quickly darted out into the open to procure the snowballs that had failed to impact the walls of the gazebo. She had quickly identified a pattern, and would only dart out when their assailants paused their throws, either to reload or to rest their throwing arms.

"They are clearly inexperienced," she said during a period of being pinned behind the gazebo. "They would know to wait until I go out in the open to attack. At the very least, they would know to stagger their attack, so that someone is always pinning us."

"We're lucky they are still in high school," Gibbs replied with a grin. He loved how seriously she was approaching the situation, even when she was grinning as broadly as he was. "If they had any sort of formal training we'd be in real trouble."

"Actually, their ambush tactics are admirable," Ziva said. "I almost didn't react in time."

"Oh yeah," Gibbs commented, remembering how she had intercepted the first snowball before it had nailed him in the back. He leaned over to give her a kiss. "Your instincts were on fire." They shared an intense stare. "Totally hot." A fire kindled deep in her eyes.

"You'll have to show me just _how_ hot, later," she responded, her voice husky. She smirked. "That is, if you can kick up the courage to tell your father exactly _why_ you brought me up here this weekend."

"Buck up the courage," he corrected smoothly. "And it's not a matter of courage, Ziver. I just like playing with his suspicions some. He knows there's something between us; he just thinks I'm too thick to notice." She smirked in response, and then eyed the pile of snowballs they had accumulated, which was actually quite substantial.

"I think we have enough to strategically return fire," she said. "We cannot be as liberal as they are, but seeing as we have better tactics, we should be able to put a considerable dent in their defense. We need to shift our position to one that is closer to where they are. But it also needs to be sheltered."

Gibbs glanced across the snow, searching for a location that satisfied their needs. About a dozen feet to their left, a snow plow had left a giant mound of snow pressed up against the edge of the courtyard. The angle was perfect for shielding them against the onslaught of snowballs raining down on them from the youths' direction. He nudged Ziva with his elbow, and when she gave him her attention, he pointed towards the snow shield.

"That is good for cover, but it does not give us a good vantage point from which to return fire. The ditches they have dug are effective. They limit our visibility of their position and gives them some room to maneuver. The most effective shot would be one with very little arc, but in order to hit them while they are crouched, we will have to _lob…_" she paused until Gibbs assured her she had used the correct word, "our snowballs towards them, which limits their effectiveness." She shook her head. "That should be our secondary position. We need somewhere from which we can gain a direct line of sight into their hide-outs."

She gazed around them once more. When their opponents began to pepper them with snowballs once more, she glanced up as they began to fall to the snow around them. As he watched, her face lit up, and she grinned. Turning to him, she remained silent but pointed to the sky above them. He glanced up briefly but couldn't discern what she was referring to. He arched a confused eyebrow at her.

"The roof," she explained. "It is perfect." He then looked at the roof of the gazebo too. She was right; the slope of the shingles wasn't steep, and would be perfect for a sniper's nest. It would give whoever was up there the perfect shot into the boys' snow pits, and also act as a shield for any snowballs they fired in retaliation. "Oh," Ziva said. Her face fell. When she saw him looking at her, she continued. "It will be difficult to transport the ammunition up to the roof, and there is not enough snow up there to produce a sufficient arsenal."

Gibbs searched their immediate vicinity for something that could be used as a pouch for the snowballs. Simply handing them up to whomever was on the roof would be impractical, as it would be time consuming, leave them open to attack, and would alert their opponents to their plan. He briefly considered using his coat or hat to transport them, but he needed his coat and his hat was too small to be of any use. Frustration began to creep in on him just before his keen eyes spotted something in the shadows of the gazebo.

He crawled toward the corner of the pavilion, careful to keep his head down. Ziva briefly sent a volley of snowballs in the boys' direction, hoping to prevent them from realizing the two NCIS agents were strategizing. Gibbs reached out and snagged the item that had flagged his attention from where it poked out from under the snow. He quickly returned to Ziva and shook the snow from it, revealing it to be a sturdy cloth bag, the kind used to transport groceries.

Someone must have left there by accident, or it was blown there during the snowstorm the night before. Either way, Gibbs was thankful; it was deep and wide, perfect for transporting a single large load of snowballs to the roof of the gazebo. Ziva took one look at it and grinned.

"You go to the snow shield and attract their attention," she said authoritatively. "I will fly."

True to her word, as soon as Gibbs had made his way to the pile of snow left by the snowplow, Ziva had shimmied up one of the support beams of the gazebo. Splaying herself out in a prone position along the roof, she inched her way forward until she was able to get a visual on their opponents. Gibbs fired snowballs across the street as best he could, but he had a limited range to use. When he popped up to take aim, a heavy snowball exploded on the shoulder of his coat. The impact knocked him slightly off-balance, but when he looked towards the shooter, he saw a snowball come out of nowhere and hit the boy straight on the ear. The force of the blow sent the boy sprawling, and the Marine glanced to the top of the gazebo, where Ziva had ducked back down behind the peak of the roof, effectively hiding from view.

She nodded at him as the boys started to exclaim in bewilderment, wondering where the shot had come from. As they scrambled to recover, Gibbs took full advantage, lobbing snowballs at them as they dove for cover. Several of them hit their marks, eliciting loud yelps. But then they were hidden from view once more, and Gibbs halted his volley of snowballs. A few moments passed, and then another yelp erupted from across the street. Gibbs looked, and a capped head popped out of the snow in confusion, looking for where the shot had come from. Gibbs shot up as well, firing yet another snowball at the newly presented target. It hit dead-on, and the boy quickly disappeared with a yell.

It was as if a threshold had been passed in that moment, for in the next instant, all hell broke loose. Snow started flying as all the boys began hurling snowballs, mostly at Gibbs but a few in the direction they believed the second shooter to be, though they all fell short of Ziva's position. Gibbs returned fire, managing to dodge many of the snowballs. He took a few hits, but he hit the boys more than they hit him. By now they had acquired an audience, adults and children alike lining the town square. When Gibbs took a particularly nasty hit to the neck, the spectators cried out: some in outrage, others in glee.

Ziva rose up to take another shot, which hit its mark with unerring accuracy, and some of the kids watching began to call to the boys in pits. "The roof! The roof!" they cried. Gibbs cursed as the boys across the street shifted their attention on the newest target. Ziva heard the calls and quickly hid as a volley was sent her way. She remained out of sight for several moments, waiting for them to shift their attention from her again. Unfortunately, they had recognized the greater threat, and seemed to be waiting for her to show herself again. Gibbs knew her position was compromised, and began throwing snowballs across the street in an attempt to divert their attention. It worked, for a few of them. They returned fire, and Ziva heard the snow thudding against the shield Gibbs was hiding behind.

Before Gibbs could shout a warning, she darted up to eliminate the threat. In an instant, the boys launched their missiles. She didn't have time to do more than raise her arms to shield her face before the snowballs hit. They caught her on the chest and _poff_ed against her arms. One was thrown with unusual force, and it knocked her off balance. Her foot shifted to accommodate, but as Gibbs watched, her boot hit a patch of ice, and she fell back.

Watching as if it were in slow motion, Gibbs saw her tumble down the roof of the gazebo as the spectators gasped in horror. The snowballs continued to fly, as many of the boys were unable to see her fall, but Gibbs was no longer aware of them. Ziva hit the snow, immediately disappearing as she sank in the deep drift.

"Ziva!" Gibbs shouted. He ran over to where she had landed, dodging the snowballs that came his way, finally skidding to his knees next to where Ziva lay. He looked down into the depression her impact with the snow had created, and found her lying on her back, her eyes scrunched together, her legs drawn up to her chest. For a moment he thought that she was holding her middle because she was injured, that her ribs had broken in the fall, but then he realized that she was laughing, laughing harder than he had ever seen her laugh before.

She was laughing so hard she couldn't catch her breath, and no sound could escape her lips. Only the puffs of air billowing from her mouth told him she was still breathing. He heaved a sigh of relief, and when Ziva noticed his presence, she attempted to calm herself enough to tell him she was fine. As she regained her breath, her laughs became more audible, and they rang out clear as crystal across the snow. She gasped for more air, and she was finally able to do more than squint at him. Sparkling brown eyes looked up at him, and for a moment they didn't speak, simply gazing at each other in the absurd, yet intimate moment. Then Ziva noticed the snowballs raining down on him, and she reached up and yanked him by the coat on top of her.

He tumbled into the depression, and was effectively shielded from the onslaught of packed snow. Nose to nose, their breaths mingled as they condensed in the cold air, and Gibbs felt his heart speed up at their proximity. Blue eyes met warm brown ones, and it was if a spark of electricity traveled through their insulated bodies. Their moment was broken however by the sound of snow crunching above them. They looked up to see all six boys from across the street standing over them, a snowball in each of the twelve hands.

"You okay, miss?" one asked.

"Yes." Ziva's answer was short and precise.

"Good," a different boy said. This one appeared to be the leader, his red knit cap easily recognizable; he had started the fight. As he spoke, all six boys drew back an arm, preparing to pelt Gibbs and Ziva point-blank. Gibbs saw their intention and reacted, trying to shield Ziva as much as he could with his own body. Doing so forced him to break lose visual on their assailants, but he heard the sound of snow flying through the air, and then the impact of snow on coat. Oddly, he didn't feel the impact.

Quickly glancing up, Gibbs saw the boys wheel away from them, turning to look in surprise towards something else. Then arms pulled each of the boys away forcefully, and now the sounds of an altercation reached the Marine's ears. He sat up smartly, as did Ziva, and they watched as some of the bystanders, adult and youth alike, had begun to wrestle with the original six boys.

Shouts of excitement filled the square as the spectators joined, flinging snow and grappling amongst themselves. Within moments, the original six boys were face first in the snow, and the victors began to congratulate each other. Gibbs looked at Ziva, who seemed puzzled.

"So is it over?" she asked.

"I think so," Gibbs responded. "It's been a while since I've been a part of one of these, so I could be mistaken, but I'm guessing people finally decided to join and help." He looked at his companion and couldn't help but smile when he saw her still grinning playfully.

"You two gave quite the performance," said an unfamiliar voice. The two agents looked up to see a man, perhaps mid-forties, gazing down at them. He reached down and held out a hand. "Let's get you out of there, shall we?" Gibbs was the first to accept the proffered hand, and when he was standing, reached down to help Ziva himself.

When they were both on their feet, the stranger introduced himself. "Pat Thomas," he said warmly. "Father of one of those boys you got right in the face, ma'am." He winked at Ziva. "And I just have to thank you," he continued before Ziva could object to being called "ma'am". "Every winter those six boys start a snow fight, and every year since they hit intermediate school they've won. They were beginning to get cocky."

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs replied. "And I was wondering about that. When I was a kid, snowball fights were between kids of similar ages. It was a bit of a shock to be ambushed by a couple teenagers."

"You must be Jackson's son then," Thomas replied. "He talks about you a lot, you know that? Went on and on about you after the hubbub with the Winslow family. I moved here in the last decade, so I wasn't all that familiar with the whole family feud deal going on between you and Winslow, but I never liked the guy, so I was actually a little glad he got knocked down to size." His gaze slid to Ziva. "And who are you, ma'am?" he asked cordially. She rolled her eyes.

"I am not a ma'am," she clarified. "Ziva David." She held out her hand, which Pat readily shook. The stranger did not hold her attention long, and she soon shifted her gaze to the boys who were just beginning to get to their feet as well, wiping snow from their eyes. "Let's get out of the snow, shall we?" she said. The three of them made their way to the pavement of the road, and Pat quickly finished his brief conversation with Gibbs as spectators and the six boys began to approach. The boy in the red cap stepped toward her first and held out his hand.

"A worthy win," he said. While his words were ambiguous, but his tone was clearly one of concession; he was declaring her and Gibbs the winner of their mock battle.

"You posed a decent challenge," she conceded, shaking his hand in sportsmanship. "Not many would be able to utilize effective guerilla strategies. I am also surprised by your prowess with a snowball." His eyes lit up at the compliment.

"But that thing you did at the very beginning!" he exclaimed, reverting back to the personality of a teenager. "That was so cool! You were like Xena! There was no way anyone else would be able to catch a snowball mid throw like that!"

"I do not know what a Xena is," Ziva responded with a smile, "but it sounded like a compliment, so… thank you."

"No man, thank you! That was the best fight we've had in years!" Another boy butted in.

"You were so cool!"

"Where did you learn to do all that stuff? You totally creamed us!"

Ziva didn't get a chance to answer anyone's questions before Gibbs approached.

"She has ninja skills," he dead-panned. Ziva glared at him.

"Really?!"

"That's totally hot!"

"A ninja? No way!"

Gibbs pulled her away, and soon parents began to pull their kids away as well. Some were scolding, but most were amiable, and Gibbs could see promises of lunch and hot chocolate on their lips. The teenage boys kept looking back at them, and he could see an all too familiar gleam in their eyes.

"I think you have some new admirers, Ziver," Gibbs said with a smile. She looked up at him confusion. "Our opponents have the hots for you," he explained.

"The hots?" she asked. "Is that like the runs? If it is, I could not imagine why they would admire me for that."

"No, Ziver. It means that they have crushes on you. They think you are hot."

"Ah," she said, comprehension dawning. "A strange way to develop a crush, I suppose, on the field of battle, but—"

"Oh, I wouldn't call this a battle," yet another voice piped up. The two agents turned to see Ed Gantry, the town deputy, standing behind them. "The winter of '96, now _that_ was a battle," he continued.

He was dressed warmly, but the star on his left breast clearly informed anyone who saw just exactly important he thought he was. Beady eyes raked up and down Ziva's form, shrouded though it was by the puffy coat and pants. "But I can see why those boys are crushing on you," he said, the desire in his voice undisguised. "Not many girls have an arm like yours. And those that do aren't nearly as pretty as you." The sheriff reached out towards Ziva and brushed away some of the snow that had frozen to her hair.

She recoiled slightly and grabbed Gibbs' hand in a death-grip. He looked at her, wondering why she didn't lash out at the deputy, and saw her eyes flickering between the deputy and the children still milling around. Apparently, she didn't want to risk killing the law enforcement officer in front of the kids; it would probably traumatize them.

"You're going to want to back off there, Ed," Gibbs warned. He was impressed by Ziva's restraint; he himself wanted to slug the deputy's teeth out. But if Ziva could resist, so could he.

"Oh, the little lady doesn't mind," the deputy said. "Do you, missy?" He directed the question toward Ziva, but obviously didn't expect answer. His eyes slid lewdly over her frame, and Gibbs felt Ziva's hand twitch in his as the desire to cause bodily harm grew.

"The 'little lady' is about to rip you to pieces," Gibbs said, keeping his tone as light as he could. "And I suggest you treat her with a bit more respect." He stepped forward in silent challenge, clearly assuming the role of alpha male. Ziva would probably kick his ass for it later, but he was not about to let the scumbag lay his hands on the Israeli again. "Isn't there some traffic you should be directing right about now?" Gibbs continued.

Gantry visibly bristled at the subtle jibe. It seemed to Gibbs that the childhood bully was a little sore about the fact he was stuck as a sheriff's deputy in a town where the biggest crime was busting kids for drinking underage. But the deputy kept his composure, and squared his shoulders.

"Aw, now, Leroy," he said, his tone oozing with false friendliness. "You're awfully protective of your companion. She was up here last time, wasn't she? When you went after the Winslows. Ah yes, she was one of the agents you had digging around in the trash." He paused, but Gibbs remained silent.

"Isn't fraternizing with your employees against regulations?" Gantry continued. "Not that I blame you, no sir. I wouldn't mind a bit of eye candy like that in my office either. But it would be an awful shame if one of the bigwigs up in DC found out you were fishing off the company pier, wouldn't it?"

A smug grin crossed the man's lips, and it took every ounce of control Gibbs had to refrain from punching the man's lights out. He began to turn away, but paused, and turned back to look at them. "Besides," he said in a slick voice, "isn't she a little dark for your taste, Leroy?" With one last leer towards Ziva and a tip of his hat, Gantry bid them farewell and made his across the courtyard an out of sight. They watched him go.

"He is lucky I did not have my gun," Ziva said finally, her tone full of disgust. Gibbs chuckled.

"Looks like the kids aren't the only ones with their eyes on you," he responded. His words were casual, but his tone had a steely bite. "If he approaches you like that again, you either tell me, or you knock him flat on his ass."

"Gladly," she replied. "In Israel, his arm would have been fractured in two places within the first thirty seconds. And then he would have spent the following month and a half looking over his shoulder, hoping that none of my colleagues at Mossad caught wind of his disrespect."

"Yeah, well this prick isn't going to be dissuaded so easily. He finds you attractive, and he's guessed that I like you. That means he's going to do everything he can to steal you away."

"Steal me away?" Ziva scoffed. "Gibbs, you make it sound like you two are still in high school!"

"His IQ does put him in that high school mind-set. And he and Winslow never liked knowing that a pretty girl could be lusting after someone who wasn't them." Gibbs' bitter words were halted by Ziva's warm body sidling up to him.

"I think I've done a little more than lust after you," she purred. "I am not so easily stolen, he will soon find." Gibbs smiled at her, but she could still see the doubt in his eyes. She looked deeper, searching for the cause of his uncharacteristically bothered persona. Remembering one of Gantry's parting comments, she spoke. "They went after Shannon." Her effort was rewarded when icy blue eyes flicked to her sharply before looking away.

"They made her life so miserable that she had to leave Stillwater," he admitted. "She hated coming back here. I don't want you to hate this place too. I want to come back here more often, and I want you to come with me, and I want you to _like_ coming with me. I want to share this with you."

"And you are," she assured him. She turned his head toward her so that she could look into his eyes. "I am not Shannon. I am not going to let a bumbling fool who thinks too much of himself come between me and this part your life you are letting me in on. I can and will put him in his place if he tries anything inappropriate. I would have done so just now, if not for the number of bystanders. I didn't want them thinking I just went around assaulting police officers." She grinned at him, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"Don't give him the satisfaction of bothering you, Jethro," she continued. "We have both put in too much effort to get where we are to let a sniveling man like that get between us. And besides," she added, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "he did not age as well as you have."

When Gibbs pulled back to look at her, she saw the familiar twinkle of joy in his eyes. It was something she had recognized as being reserved for her and her only, and each time she saw it, she valued what they shared even more. She had seen jealousy in him before a few times in their relationship, but the self-doubting Gibbs that had just emerged moments before concerned her. It was obvious that he had not come to terms with his past, and the people in it. His relationship with his father was on the mend, but she could tell that he still hated Winslow and Gantry with an unhealthy vehemence.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at the last moment he changed his mind, instead leaning down and capturing her lips with his. It caught her off guard for a moment, but she soon responded, pressing into the kiss. Her arms snaked around his torso, and he brought his own hand up to cradle the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her dark, and now damp, curls. For a moment, it was just the two of them, but then the sound of applause and catcalls filled the town square as the adults and teens spotted their intimate moment.

They broke apart quickly, surprised at their sudden audience. Supportive cheers greeted their ears, and when they smiled sheepishly at each other, the townspeople drifted towards them once more, speaking both to the agents and amongst themselves. As the press of people around them grew, Ziva looked over at Gibbs nervously, but when she saw his happy expression as he spoke to some of his neighbors, she relaxed and started up some conversations of her own.

They remained in the courtyard for over an hour, conversing with various townsfolk. It was a while before Gibbs and Ziva were sharing a conversation again, but neither was put out by being split for so long. Ziva had learned a great deal about the lore of the town, of which there was surprising amount, and Gibbs was given the chance to catch up on the happenings since he had been gone. He fell into deep conversation with one man who he had gone to high school with. He didn't recall the man ever being a close friend in the past, but he was friendly and shared Gibbs' opinion of Gantry and Winslow.

Apparently their behavior didn't change until about a decade after they had graduated high school, and their children had gotten older. They had married too young, the man had said, and weren't willing to settle down with their respective wives. Gibbs wasn't surprised at the news, but he steered the conversation away from his two nemeses, not wanting the angry fire in his gut to grow out of his control. Talk turned to lighter subjects, and Ziva even listened in for a few minutes before the man realized the time and had to leave.

"The people here are very friendly," Ziva observed. "I thought they would be more like the deputies we worked with that one time in the boondocks, but I was wrong."

"Yeah," Gibbs agreed. "Winslow may think he runs the town, but in reality, I bet most of them hate him as much as I do. They just have to put up with him because his company provides a lot of jobs."

Together they strolled throughout the town, and Gibbs shared with her all the history he knew about the different structures and landmarks. They procured hot chocolate from a small café, which Ziva was assured as being "always open", especially when it snowed. Sipping on the hot liquid and feeling the cold wind sting her face, Ziva couldn't help but enjoy the experience. As Gibbs told her more and more about his hometown, she began to disregard the cold until she barely registered it. She didn't ask to return to Jackson's house, and he didn't offer it, and so they spent the day touring the town, and the area surrounding it.

Before they realized the afternoon had passed, it was dark, and the street lamps were beginning to turn on. In the cold, a halo seemed to shroud the lamp lights, and the light was soft against the snow. Getting an idea, Gibbs led Ziva in a new direction, away from the heart of the town. He shushed her protests, telling her that their destination was a surprise. Many people were still wandering the town as well, taking advantage of the clear night, and they were greeted cheerfully as they walked the streets.

Soon Gibbs had led Ziva to large hill some hundred meters from the houses that ringed the town. It was almost pitch-black, with no artificial light to guide them, but there was just enough light from the moon above to illuminate their path. They waded through the deep snow, which had not melted much throughout the day. Together they climbed the hill, and when they reached the peak, Gibbs turned Ziva to face the town.

"Oh."

Her breathy exclamation was nearly silent, but Gibbs heard it anyway. She didn't care that he heard. Her breath was taken away by the simple beauty of the town at night, and at the moment, she had no words.

Snow covered the houses and stores in a thick blanket, and from this distance, they reminded her of the gingerbread houses she had seen once while she was in Europe. Lights peppered the town as they gleamed warmly from the windows of the homes, and every now and then the frosty light of a streetlamp created some contrast along the streets. Dark forms moved slowly along the streets as people continued to socialize and enjoy the lack of falling snow. Ziva felt the warmth of Gibbs' body press up against her back as he leaned in to put his lips close to her ear.

"And that," he whispered softly, the words brushing against her cheek, "is why America loves its snow." He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her close. "That right there is the image of the iconic Christmas in America. Without the snow, the picture would be incomplete. The warmth of the fire wouldn't be needed, and no one would drink hot chocolate to warm them from the inside out. There would be no snowball fights and no snow men. The pine garlands and wreaths wouldn't stand out; they would blend in, and be lost in the shadows of a normal winter day. It's the snow that makes the scene before you magical Ziva—and it's why we yearn for it every winter."

Ziva closed her eyes and leaned back against him. The timbre of his voice and the warmth of his embrace mingled with poetry of his words, and the resulting effect made her want to purr in contentment. Silence washed over them when he finished, and she was loathe to break the shroud of soundless tranquility that blanketed over them. After a few moments though, she did respond.

"I believe you," she said, her voice quiet, "and I think I understand." She gazed the town once more. "It looks like a painting." Gibbs nodded against her neck.

"Artists all over the world have attempted to capture the beauty of an American Christmas, but none have done so as perfectly as this view does."

"It is beautiful," she agreed. She didn't elaborate, nor did she need to. Gibbs did not respond either, and the silence returned. They reveled in it, gazing out across the landscape as moonlight washed over the snow-covered town. They remained in their embrace for a long while, neither willing to let the moment fade. But soon the cold of the snow and the bite of the cold air returned to them, and they broke apart. They faced each other, and Gibbs took off a glove to reach out and caress her cheek.

"Christ, you're freezing," he said. He grinned at her. "Sorry about that." She shrugged in nonchalance.

"I do not even feel it anymore," she said.

"That's not a good thing Ziver," he said with a chuckle. He put his glove back on and grasped her arm, leading her back down the hill. "Come on, let's get you warmed up."

They made their way back into town and as they walked down the street arm in arm, several of the passers-by they encountered greeted them by name. They returned the greeting, but didn't stop, intent on returning home to the warmth of a fire. As they passed through the square though, Gibbs stopped, suddenly getting yet another idea. He turned to Ziva, who looked at him beseechingly, immediately recognizing his expression.

"Oh no, Jethro," she said, "not another surprise."

"Come on, Ziver, just one more, I promise." She hesitated. "I promise it'll be worth it." Little did he know, the excited twinkle in his eye had already made it worth it for Ziva. The transformation she had witnessed in him, from tough Marine to wonder-filled teenager, amazed her. She couldn't bear to see the happiness in his eyes turn to disappointment. And she had told the truth earlier; she barely noticed the cold at all anymore.

"All right," she conceded. "Let's do it."

"Okay," he said. "First I need to run and get something from the house and make sure Jackson hasn't gotten himself into trouble. I should've checked on him earlier…" He looked at her. "You okay to wait here until I get back?"

"I do not know," she said mockingly, "those boys might come back and decide to ambush me while I am without backup." Gibbs chuckled and planted a kiss on her forehead.

"They do, you give 'em hell," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes." And then he was making his way towards Jackson's house, wading through the snow that the plow hadn't gotten to yet. Ziva watched him go for a minute before making her way to sit under the gazebo she had fallen off of earlier that morning. She smiled, remembering how surprisingly fun the snowball fight had been. Gibbs was right again; snow was indeed fun when utilized correctly.

She watched other townspeople pass by, and observed the scenery around her as she waited for Gibbs to return. After twenty minutes, she began to get impatient. It wasn't that far to Jackson's house: he should have returned by now. Unless, she reasoned, the house was part of the surprise, and he had to get something ready. He had not given her a return time, after all. She made a mental note to make certain that she got one the next he asked her to wait for him.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and she began to get restless. She left the shelter of the pavilion and began to pace the courtyard. Worry began to eat at her, and she debated going back to Jackson's house. She would risk ruining his surprise, and the idea of his crest-fallen face was enough to keep her from following him.

But then another ten minutes passed, and still he did not return. Worry overcame her reluctance to ruin the surprise, and she began to leave the courtyard. Before she could reach the non-plowed street, however, a voice called out her name.

"Ziva!" a voice shouted. She turned to see Deputy Ed Gantry jogging towards her. She paused, against her better judgment, and waited for the older man to huff and puff his way towards her.

"Yes, Deputy?" she asked as soon as he was close enough. Her words were frosty, clearly communicating her desire to be on her way.

"Leroy sent me to get you," he said as he caught his breath. Alarm filled her.

"Why? What is wrong? Has something happened to Jackson?"

"No, no," he said, waving aside her concern. "He found something on the east side of town. Something suspicious."

"He should have called me," she said, fumbling in her pockets for the cell phone she had tucked in there earlier in the morning. Having pulled it out, she glanced at the screen before giving an exasperated sigh. "No service," she muttered. She should have remembered that from the last time she was in Stillwater.

"And you have no idea what it is?" she asked. Ziva looked at the deputy skeptically, peeved that he had caused her more worry. Now intrigue filled her. Had Gibbs found a crime scene, even here? Hopefully it was not the surprise he promised her.

"He didn't say, wouldn't let me near. Just told me to come and find you. But he had that look, you know?"

Ziva bit back a derisive snort. She knew the look all right. There were several that were easily associated with a crime scene. The one that came at the prospect at a challenge, the look at a particularly nasty crime scene that told him he was about to go on a rampage, and not to mention the look he got whenever he had to work with incompetent local LEOs. Her money was on the last option.

"Where is he?" she asked finally. Gantry started walking to the east, waving for her to follow.

"This way," he said. "It's a bit difficult to find on your own if you're not familiar with the area." She followed reluctantly, trudging after the deputy. She couldn't help but wonder if Jackson was all right, if Gibbs had even managed to make it home before finding... whatever it was he found. Or rather, what the deputy said he found.

She was aware of the possibility that the deputy could be lying to her. After all, what was Gibbs doing on the east side of town? During their tour earlier, she had seen nothing of potential interest on that side of the town; it was mainly residential. His story was just plausible enough for her to be unable to brush him off, but not specific enough to give her any kind of clue as to what would be waiting for her.

She wasn't overly concerned about herself though. If he tried anything, she would have him out cold in less than five seconds. This time, he didn't have any kids to protect him from her "crazy ninja skills". As they traveled farther from the square, he led her between two rows of houses, and before them lay a wide expanse of unmarred snow. The lack of footprints made Ziva even more suspicious. If anything, Gibbs' footprints should be visible, if he were in the area. The deputy's as well, if he had been close enough to Gibbs to receive his order to find her.

She was about to leave and head back to Jackson's house, more convinced that Gibbs would be there. But then she remembered how crude Gantry had been that morning, and how he had made Gibbs doubt himself. And then the desire to be justified in causing the deputy physical harm grew. So she decided to continue following him, and to see exactly what he thought he could pull over on her.

Finally the deputy slowed to a stop. Ziva also stopped, and took in her surroundings. The ground was flat and there weren't any trees. Even with the snow, she knew that her voice would carry easily back to the town if she found that she needed to call for help. She also noticed that the snow had become less of a hindrance around her feet, and she looked down to see that barely two inches covered the ground she stood on. She found it odd, and she briefly wondered why they snow was so shallow before turning her attention to more pressing matters.

As she suspected, Gibbs was nowhere in sight, and when she turned to confront the deputy, she found that Gantry had sidled up close to her. She took a step back, voluntarily. She decided to play along some.

"Where is Gibbs?" she asked. She made eye contact with him as his mustache twisted into a smirk.

"To be honest, ma'am," he drawled, "that story about Gibbs was little white lie." Ziva bristled slightly at the use of "ma'am", but she let it slide. "I just needed an excuse to get a chance to talk to you alone."

"You could have spoken to me in the square," she said. "There was no one there."

"One thing you'll fast learn about small towns is that even if you think you're alone, you're still being watched." He slid even closer, and Ziva could smell the chewing tobacco on his breath. "Out here though, there's nowhere for those prying ears to hide. We're alone out here, don't you worry."

"Oh, I wasn't," she replied smoothly. "But I really should be going. I was waiting for someone—"

"You mean you were waiting for that holier-than-thou sonuvagun," he interrupted, his voice harsh. He immediately caught himself, and his tone softened again. "A pretty little thing like you is too good to be wasted on him, sweet pea. You deserve a strong man, one with class."

"Like you?" she scoffed. Her tone was sharp, and mild shock telegraphed across his features. He recovered quickly though.

"Aw, now don't be like that," he drawled, but Ziva wasn't having any of it.

"Gibbs is ten times the man you will ever be. He has undergone hardships that you couldn't conceive of. Not only that, but he has risen above it, and he is stronger for it. He still hates your guts, but honestly, I do not see why he puts even that much thought towards you. You are worth less than the snow you are standing on." She watched as his expression hardened, and she realized that she was now getting a glimpse of the bully Gibbs had grown up with. Only now, the bully was 6'3'' and weighed an easy 230 pounds.

"Listen to the mouth on you," he remarked. He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her close. His grip was like a vice, but Ziva wasn't intimidated. He may have seemed menacing to the people of this town, but to her, he was nothing more than bluster. She glanced down at his hand with a sneer.

"Remove your hand," she said, her voice dropping to a low growl. Any one of her NCIS teammates would have scrambled away at the tone of her words, but this man wasn't so smart.

"I think someone needs to teach you a lesson," he said, ignoring her command. His free hand reached up grabbed her chin harshly, forcing her to look him in the eye. "I have just the way to teach it to you too," he continued. The hand that clasped her arm detached itself to wander towards her breasts, but it didn't have a chance to reach its destination before she sprang into action.

Without warning her elbow shot up and smashed into his mustached lip, breaking the skin and causing blood to coat his front teeth. Then her knee came up and her hands yanked him down to meet it, bringing his sternum down to meet the point of her knee with twice the force. Before he could catch his breath she hooked a leg around his and using his own body mass against him, throwing him down to the now-churned snow.

Just as a shout from behind caught her attention, a thunderous clap from below became all-encompassing as she suddenly realized why the snow wasn't as deep as it was five feet away. The fact that she was standing on ice snapped into her awareness a split second before she plunged into frigid, pitch-black water.

* * *

Gibbs was thoroughly exasperated by the time he finally left his father's house to return to the town square. The old man had decided to go out and shovel the walk and driveway… but had decided to start from the end of the driveway and work his way towards the house. By the time Gibbs had come home to check on him, he had only finished the first half of the drive, and had found himself too tired to continue. Gibbs, however, was skeptical about the exhaustion his father claimed, as the old man had proceeded to flirt with the elderly next door neighbor while Gibbs shoveled the rest of the driveway and the path that led to the door. It had taken a good half-hour to finish that, and it took him another fifteen to find his wallet, which he had thought was in his pants from yesterday, but had somehow ended up in the bottom of his overnight bag.

And now, as he walked back to where he had left Ziva, he felt something other than excitement in his gut. In fact, he came to the realization that something was seriously wrong. As soon as he hit the plowed section of town, he broke into a run, sprinting towards the pavilion in the center of the square. He searched the pavilion's shadows for her, and his worry only grew when he discovered she was nowhere in sight. Rushing back down into the courtyard, he surveyed the square, hoping to see her conversing with some of the people still walking about. Nothing.

Suddenly, his eyes recognized a man passing him, and he reached out and snagged his arm.

"Pat," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Have you seen Ziva?"

"Oh hey, Gibbs," the man greeted, just as friendly as he had been when they had met that morning. "Uhm, yes, I did, she was here just a few minutes ago, actually. She was talking to Ed Gantry. You know, he said that you had sent him to get her," he said, confusion filling his voice. "Didn't she get to you?" Alarm jolted through Gibbs, and his gut churned ominously.

"Pat, where did they go?" he asked, keeping his voice even. But a dark undercurrent pervaded it nonetheless, and Pat could sense the urgency of Gibbs' need for information.

"Uhm, yeah," he responded nervously. "He said you were on the east side of town. Last I saw them, they were headed toward the lake."

As soon as Gibbs heard his answer he was off, running towards the lake without so much as a thank you. The deep snow he soon encountered threatened to fell him, but he charged through it, not willing to let something as silly as crystallized water to get in his way. He needed to reach her and fast. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the fact that Gantry was with Ziva did nothing to ease the rolling of his gut.

He took the shortcut to the lake, following the two sets of footprints that led him between two rows of houses. As soon as he left the shadows of the houses, he was able to see the scene playing out clear as day in the moonlight. The interaction between the two shrouded forms did not worry him so much as their location. They were not by the lake, they were _on_ it.

Gantry had Ziva by the arm, and was yanking her close. Gibbs started running when he saw the man reach up to grab Ziva's chin. The situation was escalating, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before she retaliated. And on the ice, the ice that Gibbs knew had not had enough time to freeze completely, wouldn't hold up under a fight that was sure to ensue.

As if in slow motion, Gibbs saw Gantry reach towards Ziva's chest, and as he fought his way through the snow towards them, he saw Ziva explode into action. An elbow, then a knee, and then he saw her foot snake out. Recognizing the move, he shouted out in warning, but it was too late. Gantry had landed on the ice, and violent _crack_ was heard. Then Gibbs' heart jumped to his throat as he saw Ziva disappear from sight as she fell through the ice and into the ice-cold lake.

"ZIVA!" he shouted, though he knew that she could not hear. He struggled through the snow, cursing its abundance as he heard splashing and a man's shouts coming from the lake. Behind him, he briefly registered that others had heard his shout and come running. Calls for blankets and more help echoed throughout the sleepy town, and he could soon hear other crunching their way through the snow behind him, ready to help.

Then he was through the snow and immediately got on his stomach, distributing his weight across the ice. He crawled across the ice with the grace only a soldier could have, intent on crossing the twelve feet between him and Ziva. He could see arms flailing above the water as he approached, and he heard Gantry shouting for help, clearly in a panic. But he couldn't hear Ziva. He hoped desperately that it was because she knew how to keep her head in a situation, and not because she was still underwater.

"Ziva!" he called again, only a few feet away now. As he got closer to the break in the ice, he slowed his approach marginally, hoping to detect if the ice was going to break underneath him. But his approach was unhindered, and soon he was at the edge.

He saw Gantry struggling desperately in the water, but his motions weren't doing anything but wasting energy. Gibbs then saw two smaller hands wrapped around the deputy's chest, and his heart leapt as he saw Ziva's head emerge from the water with a gasp.

"Ziva!" he shouted, reaching out to her. She didn't respond, too busy trying to avoid Gantry's flailing limbs as she supported his weight in the frigid water. The deputy didn't even seem to be aware of her presence, instead focusing on Gibbs' prone form on the ice, reaching out for help with a shout. In the back of his mind, Gibbs couldn't help but wonder at her actions; if it had been him, he would have let Gantry find his own way out of the frozen lake. After all, it had been his fault they were on the lake in the first place.

With jerky movements, Ziva managed to move both of them closer to the edge of the ice, close enough for her to reach out and grab hold of the fragile edge. Her hold was some feet from Gibbs, and he scrambled closer as she attempted to shove Gantry out of the water. Just as Gibbs caught hold of one of the deputy's arms, Gantry remembered how to move on his own, and he clawed his way onto the ice. To Gibbs' horror, he used Ziva as he would a step ladder, and a booted foot came down on her shoulder to climb up onto the ice.

The action forced her head below the surface of the water as the edge of ice she was grasping broke off under her grip, and Gibbs abandoned Gantry to the waiting arms of the newly arrived help. He nearly threw himself over the edge of the ice in his desperation to get her out of the water. Only the quick hands of a fellow townsperson on his legs kept him from tumbling headlong into the icy depths after her.

As his arms sank into the water, blindly searching for Ziva's form, the glacial frigidity of the water stabbed into his limbs like knives. He nearly cried out from the shock, but his mind was too focused on locating Ziva to do so. Desperation climbed into his throat until he could barely breathe, but then—there. His fingers brushed against something.

His fingers cinched around it and gave a vicious yank. Ziva's head broke the surface of the water, and Gibbs didn't release his grip on her parka until he had dragged her from the water and back several feet from the edge. Blankets were then draped over both them, but Gibbs shrugged his off in favor of tending to Ziva. He turned her onto her side as she coughed icy water from her lungs. Her breath condensed in heavy clouds as it passed her lips, and her body spasmed as violent shivers wracked her body.

Hands covered her with blankets, turning and wrapping her until she was cocooned in the dry cloths. Briefly Gibbs wondered if they should get her out of her wet clothes, but then he realized that it would be pointless to do so before getting her inside. As soon as he had eliminated that possible line of action, he returned his focus to Ziva's current state.

Throughout the process, she hadn't reacted. She didn't push away the offending hands, and she didn't bark at the first responders. Instead she simply lay there, her legs curled to her chest as she shook, trying to get warm. Her breath puffed from between her lips rapidly, and her eyes were squeezed shut, and Gibbs knew that the biting pain he had just felt in his arms while reaching for her was now pervading her entire body, causing her to feel nothing but the intense pain.

He yanked off his glove and grasped her hand tightly. Someone had also removed hers, finding it better for all unnecessary items of clothing to be removed. Her hand immediately constricted around his, and Gibbs was shocked by how cold her skin was. The contact didn't last long, for as soon as they were done wrapping her in blankets, he scooped her up in his arms as her saviors called out orders.

"Get her inside!"

"Get her out of those clothes, dry her out!"

"Make sure she gets warm and stays warm!"

"We'll take care of Gantry!"

Gibbs didn't need to be told twice to get going. As soon as she was in his arms he began making his way back to the shore, and then wading through the thick snow. The hand he had previously gripped desperately was now clinging to the front of his parka, as if she needed the reassurance of his presence under her fingers. Movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to the presence of a teenager, one of the boys from that morning. When the boy saw Gibbs looking at him, he spoke.

"So you don't lose your balance," he said in way of explanation. Gibbs nodded but didn't speak, focusing on getting Ziva home and in front of the fire. He had urged Jackson to build one as he was leaving to meet up with Ziva again, and he hoped desperately that his father had managed to do so. He wasn't sure exactly how he made it home, but the next thing he knew, he was at the foot of his driveway.

He sprinted up the drive and to the front door, telling the boy who had followed him to open the door for him. The teen did so without hesitation, then stood aside to allow Gibbs to enter first with Ziva. Gibbs rushed into the house and through the hall until he reached the family room. To his relief, a strong fire was going in the fireplace.

"Dad!" Gibbs shouted to alert the elder man to their presence, his voice laden with urgency. He gently laid Ziva down on the couch. She didn't release her grip on his jacket, but he doubted she even registered his presence. But he couldn't bring himself to break away from her. He turned to the teen, who had followed him into the house. "There is a closet at the top of the stairs on the left. It has all the extra blankets, grab as many as you can. Then go two doors down on the right, and grab the duffel that is on the desk chair," he instructed, giving instructions for the youth to grab Ziva's overnight bag. It would have at least one pair of dry sweat pants, he knew, and hopefully a sweater as well.

The boy ran off to do his bidding, and nearly collided with Jackson as he came into the room. Then the boy had disappeared up the stairs and Jackson shuffled over to the couch quickly. When he saw Ziva laying there, alarm flashed across his wrinkled face.

"Ziva!" he exclaimed. "Leroy, what the hell happened?"

"She fell through the ice on the lake."

"What was she doing there? You know that it hasn't been cold long enough for it to have frozen completely!"

"Dammit, Dad, I know that!" His concern in his voice was harsh, even to his own ears. "I wasn't there. I left her in the square until I was finished here, but Gantry—"

"Ed Gantry?"

"Yes! Ed Gantry! He lured Ziva to the lake, and he tried something, and Ziva retaliated. The ice broke, and they both fell through." At that point the boy returned, laden with blankets and Ziva's duffel. Gibbs relieved him of his burden, and then told him to leave the room while he got Ziva out of her wet clothes. The teen obeyed. "Help me," Gibbs instructed his father. Together, they managed to get Ziva out of her soaking clothes and dried off. They were in the middle of redressing her in a dry outfit when she finally regained her awareness.

"Gibbs?" she said faintly before she began to cough. Gibbs immediately began to stroke her hair soothingly.

"Hey," he said. "Don't speak, okay, just take it easy." She trembled under his touch.

"Cold," she whispered.

"I know," he said. "We're going to get you warm, okay? The fire is going, and we're going to wrap you up in lots of blankets, and you're going to stop shivering." True to his word, he wrapped Ziva's head and torso in a blanket, so that only her face was visible under the swath of blankets. A damp curl clung to her cheek, and Gibbs brushed it away tenderly before climbing up onto the sofa next to her.

She lay down and rested her shoulders in his lap, her head propped up by a pillow. She was on her side, attempting to ease her breathing, and she ended up facing the fire. He softly instructed her to rest, just as the teen from before re-entered and stood next to Jackson, watching as she continued to quake in his lap. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she flinched away from his touch.

"Hurts," she managed to croak out before lapsing into another bout of painful coughs.

"It's true," the teen piped up. "I fell through when I was a kid, and all I can remember is hurting for days after. Had a real nasty cough too, lasted for weeks." Gibbs looked at the kid.

"What's your name?" he asked quietly.

"Josh. Josh Hamill."

"Thank you for your help tonight Josh," he said sincerely.

"I'm just glad I could help. I mean, you really didn't leave much for us to do, since you pulled her out and everything. How long was she in the water?"

"I don't think any longer than three minutes, but I can't be certain. And no thanks to Gantry," he added bitterly. He looked down at the woman in his lap, who blinked tiredly, even as she jerked under the blankets as her muscles contracted again in an attempt to warm up.

"Deputy Gantry?" Josh asked. "What do you mean? What'd he do?"

"He was only concerned about his own skin." Gibbs looked up at his father and the teen next to him briefly before gazing at Ziva once more. "Pushed her under in his attempt to get out of the water."

"Really?" Josh looked between the two older men. "I thought he had tried to help get her out, and had fallen in when the ice broke again."

"No. Gantry isn't that gallant. Ziva wouldn't have even been out on the lake if not for him." He looked at Jackson. "Pat Johnson said Ed told Ziva I had sent him to find her. Dammit." His voice was harsh and bitter with anger. "What the hell was he thinking? He knew that ice wasn't safe. Why lure her there?" A moment of silence followed before Josh spoke up.

"I don't think I'm the first person to say this, but Deputy Gantry isn't exactly the sharpest tool in shed, if you know what I mean," the boy said. "Maybe he thought it was romantic or something. Maybe he liked how isolated it was—no one goes near the lake during the first snowfall." Jackson moved to sit in the easy chair closer to the fire, and Josh sat on the floor, with his back against the mantle. "I don't know why he bothered though," the youth continued. "I was there when you three were talking in the courtyard. Even I could see that she was less the interested. Matter of fact, it looked like she wanted to claw his face off."

"You're damn right about that," Gibbs said with a chuckle. "She wanted to shoot out his kneecaps."

"_Tipesh kmo naal benzona,_" Ziva muttered in Hebrew, her voice drifting softly to Gibbs' ears. Gibbs leaned over to look at her, and make sure she was talking to them, and not muttering in her sleep. When he found her staring into the fire, the flames dancing in her eyes, he grinned slightly.

"And what does that mean?" he asked. Her brown eyes flicked to Jackson, then across the room to Josh, and then back up to him.

"I will tell you later," she said, her eyes flicking pointedly between the old man and the boy. Gibbs laughed.

"I thought so," he said, having guessed correctly that her were less than polite. Ziva also began to chuckle as she felt him laugh, but in a moment was coughing once more.

"You might want to make sure you have some cough medicine," Josh suggested. "It helped me out a lot. You weren't in the water long, but you still run the risk of pneumonia."

"I thought you said the only thing you remember from your fall through the ice was the pain afterwards," Gibbs said. "You seem to know a lot more than you let on."

"Yeah, I do. We all do."

"Oh, yeah," Jackson added. "Every couple years or so a kid falls through. The idiots think it's _cool_ to see how early and how far they can go across the lake."

"Hey, not all of us do it," Josh protested. In the next moment though, he was grinning. "Only the ones who haven't already fallen through think it's fun." The three adults laughed, two more strongly than the third. "If you are out of medication or anything, don't worry," he added. "We've got about five minutes before half the town is over here to make sure she's okay, and that you have everything you need."

Ziva shifted quickly and looked up at Gibbs in alarm. The silent pleading in her eyes almost made him laugh; it was obvious that she didn't want to have to deal with any well-wishers. He quickly spoke to reassure her.

"Don't worry, you don't have to see them. They won't even come inside the house."

"You don't have to worry about them either," Jackson interjected. "Josh and I can run interference for you." As he finished speaking, the doorbell rang. "Speak of the devil," he said wryly. "Let's get going, Josh. You just keep Ziva company, Leroy," he said as he slowly stood from his seated position. "We've got this handled, don't we Josh?"

"Yes, sir," the teen replied. He turned to Gibbs. "My parents will probably drag me home," he said. "I'm glad you were there to pull her out when you did, Mr. Gibbs. And I hope you feel better soon, Ziva." He offered his hand out to Gibbs, who shook it, mildly surprised at the boy's maturity. "Good night, sir."

"Good night Josh," Gibbs replied. "And thank you for your help."

"My pleasure." And then the boy followed Jackson to the front door, which opened to a cacophony of concerned questions from well-meaning neighbors. The sound was muffled when the door closed behind them, leaving Gibbs and Ziva in peaceful quiet. Looking down at Ziva as she shivered, he noticed that her breathing had evened out slightly. Bending over her, he was able to see that she had managed to doze off.

He gladly let her sleep, not overly concerned now that she was warm and dry. She was still asleep when Jackson returned about a half hour later. He stayed in the room with them for a couple hours before retiring for the night. He made sure the fireplace had enough wood nearby, to make sure that Ziva had the benefit of the fire's warmth throughout the night. Then he made his way quietly upstairs. Gibbs stayed awake as long as he could, but the warmth of the room and Ziva's steady breathing eventually lulled him to sleep.

The sound of loud, violent coughing woke him a few hours later. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he tiredly realized that the offending sound was coming from the form on his lap. Quickly waking up the rest of the way, Gibbs carefully lifted her enough so that he could slip out from under her before laying her back down on the sofa.

He crouched in front of her just as another bout of coughs wracked her body. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead, and when he put a hand on her skin, Gibbs realized she was running a fever. Dashing to find the thermometer, he was able to quickly discover her exact temperature: 102o. Not overly worrisome, unless it persisted for more than twelve hours.

He got up to grab a glass of water, and returned shortly. He placed a hand on her shoulder gently wake her. When she finally opened her eyes for him, her gaze was feverish, and she was having difficulty focusing on him. He managed to coax her into taking several sips of water before her head fell tiredly to the pillow once more.

He took advantage of the moment to unwrap her from the cocoon they had made for her, and instead covered her with only a single thick blanket. It was heavy enough to keep her warm, but not so warm as the worsen her fever. Ziva continued to shake from the chills racing through her body and the fever took over, and Gibbs found himself wanting to punish Gantry more and more.

But he managed to keep his anger under control. The knowledge that _she_ needed him had considerable staying power, and he knew that he had time in the future to make Gantry pay for what he did; both before and after the ice had broken.

The night passed slowly, punctuated only by coughs that rattled from her chest and him waking her up periodically, only long enough to get some fluids in her. Her fever persisted until late afternoon, but it didn't get any worse. Gibbs lost track of how many people came by to check on them, bringing over food and instructions to make sure Ziva got lots of fluids. Josh was the only one to actually come inside the house, though, and he kept Gibbs and Jackson company for several hours.

When her fever finally broke, it was only a short while before Ziva woke up on her own. She was slightly disoriented, but Gibbs stayed with her as she managed to drink a full glass of water on her own. He spoke to her gently, reassuring her, and she soon relaxed again, quickly falling into a more peaceful sleep. Though she was no longer shivering as much, her breath still continued to rattle in her chest, and the sound of it constantly reminded Gibbs of how she had been forced underwater.

Her chances of getting pneumonia had increased dramatically, he knew, due to Gantry's blind scramble to get back onto the ice. Fury began to burn inside the Marine as he wondered why Ziva even bothered to think about that pig's worthless hide. No doubt she knew how to get out of the water on her own; if not for her concern about Gantry's wellbeing, if she had not made it her responsibility to save him, she would have been out of the water in moments.

"Do you know anything about Gantry's condition?" he asked Josh, trying to keep the venom out of his voice. Josh snorted in derision.

"Yeah," the youth said, "he's doing way better than Ziva, but he's trying to milk this for all he's worth. He acts like he's hurting, but when he started going on about how it was all Ziva's fault the ice broke—he lost all sympathy anyone had for him."

"Why?" Gibbs asked. "From anyone else's point of view, it was Ziva's fault. She threw him, and that broke the ice."

"He knows better than to go out onto the ice. We all know that. And some of us saw how she saved his life, and how he didn't give a crap about anyone but himself. By now the whole town knows." Josh paused, before continuing in a pensive tone. "You know, I don't think the town has warmed up to anyone this quickly before. Usually there's at least a few weeks of the cold shoulder before they actually begin to strike up a conversation with someone they don't know."

"The power of a good snowball fight," Jackson suggested. By now, he had heard a dozen versions of the fight the day before, all of them featuring the one and only Ziva David.

"Aw man, that was a wicked fight," Josh agreed, leaning back against the fireplace mantle, which he was sitting against. He looked at Gibbs. "Where did she learn to throw a snowball like that? I actually have a couple bruises, and I know Tommy has a shiner from where he got one of hers in the face."

"I don't know," Gibbs answered, his mind elsewhere. "I was under the impression she had never thrown a snowball before. But more than likely she just did it instinctually, or saw one of you throw one. She's a pretty good mimic." He paused, and his expression turned stony as his thoughts drifted. When he looked back at the boy a few moments later, there was a cold fire burning in his blue eyes. "Where is Gantry now?"

"Holed up at his mom's place," Josh told him with a cackle. "She's the only one in town who still seems to care that he went through the ice too." Before the boy had even finished speaking, Gibbs was on his feet and headed to the door. Jackson caught up with him as he was shrugging on his parka.

"Where are you going, Leroy?" the elder man asked.

"To pay ole Ed a visit." Gibbs' voice was hard, and Jackson was slightly alarmed by the gleam in his son's eye.

"I remember that look," he said. "You looking for payback, son?" Gibbs didn't respond, instead simply shot a look towards his father. Jackson hesitated, as if debating whether or not he should try to persuade his son to stay. Finally, he spoke. "Make sure you give him an extra knock-around for me," he said simply.

Gibbs gave him a humorless smile as he opened the front door. "Make sure she stays comfortable Dad," he said. "If she wakes up before I get back, tell her I'll be back in a few minutes. This won't take long." And then he was gone, disappearing into the growing dusk.

The way to the Gantry home was short and quick. More of the streets had been plowed, which made walking much easier. Less than five minutes later, he was banging on Gantry's door. Gibbs didn't even have time to think about what to say if his mother answered before the door swung open. Luckily, it was Ed himself who answered the door.

Before either had a chance to speak, Gibbs reached out and grabbed Gantry by the collar, pulling him out of the house forcefully. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, his fist came down on the deputy's face—once, twice, three times. Gantry began to call for help, but Gibbs swung him up and slammed him against the side of the house, pressing an arm against the man's throat to both silence him and keep him in place.

Gibbs stepped into him, getting so close their noses were almost touching. The Marine stared into his eyes with a burning intensity, and he could see a glimmer of fear in the deputy's eyes. Taking some satisfaction from it, Gibbs spoke.

"You come near her again and I swear to god, I will snap your neck." His voice was low, little more than a growl. He pressed a little harder on his victim's throat. "Do you understand me?"

Gantry nodded frantically, desperately trying to choke out an affirmative past the arm on his throat. Gibbs paused a moment for emphasis before pulling away, allowing the man to gasp in some air. Gibbs stood and watched as he spat blood from his split lip and busted nose onto the porch as he wheezed for breath. Gibbs only turned his back on him when Gantry glared up at him furiously, clearly ignoring the man's indignation, and deliberately inciting his anger.

As the NCIS agent stepped down off the porch, he heard Gantry launch himself off the porch after him with an angry yell, obviously hoping to take Gibbs off guard. Gibbs, however, was expecting it. With a smooth pivot he spun away from the deputy, and then swung back around to slam Gantry to the ground. Landing a few swift, but extremely effective blows to the man's midsection, he felt a few ribs crack. He took a small amount of sick satisfaction from the sound of breaking bone, and only let up when he saw Gantry attempt to curl up into the fetal position.

Without another word, Gibbs stood and began to walk away. He heard Gantry scuffle in the snow behind him, but knew that the man was simply writhing in pain. The cold of the snow probably wasn't very pleasant either, against the skin already made sensitive by his plunge into the lake. As he steadily walked away, Gibbs felt as if an incredible weight had lifted from his shoulders, and he let a smirk curl his lips as he made his way back home.

Upon returning to his childhood home, Gibbs was rewarded by the sight of Ziva sitting on the sofa nursing a mug of what looked like hot tea as she listened to Jackson and Josh trade stories. She looked up when she heard him enter the room, and she smiled. Gibbs couldn't help but notice that she still looked a little flushed, despite her wan appearance, but her eyes were alert; all disorientation from the fever had vanished from her gaze.

"Hi," she said, her voice gravelly. She attempted to clear her throat, but when she spoke again, it was clear it had done no good. "Have a nice walk?"

"We were just telling Ziva that you needed some fresh air," Jackson supplied when Gibbs looked at him questioningly. "See, my dear?" he directed towards Ziva. "I told you he wouldn't be long." Ziva nodded, but her gaze didn't leave Gibbs. The Marine met her gaze and held, letting her look as hard as she wanted. When she let the smallest of smirks grace her lips, he knew that he was busted, and that she knew exactly where he had been.

"It certainly is a good night for a… walk," she said, playing along. Gibbs was certain that neither Jackson nor Josh realized that she had deduced his actions, and he didn't call her out on it. Instead he removed his coat and sat next to her on the sofa. He smoothed her hair away from her face.

"How are you feeling?" he asked tenderly.

"Much better." Her response was greeted with a knowing stare. "I am little sore," she amended, "and my chest hurts from this cough, but really, Gibbs, I am fine."

"Okay," he said accepting her declaration. He believed her, even though anyone else would want nothing more than curl up in bed for days after what she had been through. He shouldn't be surprised anymore, at her resilience. As Gibbs became lost in his thoughts, Jackson and Josh rekindled their earlier conversation, and Ziva listened in, unconsciously leaning into Gibbs' touch.

They talked for several hours, and Ziva managed to drink some broth before her eyes began to drift closed. She was dozing on Gibbs' shoulder when someone finally called attention to her need to sleep. Josh offered to leave and give them some peace, but Ziva quickly shook her head.

"No, Josh," she said in a hoarse voice, "you can stay. I should go upstairs anyway. This sofa is humpy." Josh looked towards Gibbs and Jackson in confusion, an amused smile tickling his lips.

"I think she means lumpy," Jackson clarified. Ziva quickly affirmed the assumption.

"Yes, lumpy, excuse me." She stood shakily, but shrugged off Gibbs' steadying hand. He knew better than to be offended though, instead accepting her refusal of help without a word. She looked at Josh in the warm glow of the fire. "If you would like to come by tomorrow, Josh, I am sure I will be much better company," she said. "And thank you again for your help."

"No need to thank me," the youth responded. "You letting me hang out with you guys is turning me into the most popular kid in town." When Ziva's expression turned quizzical, he continued. "You're really pretty, Ziva," he explained bluntly, making Gibbs give a bark of laughter. Even Jackson chuckled at the somewhat embarrassed look on Ziva's face. "And, all the parents think you're really great for playing with us yesterday morning, so they've been calling the house to get updates on your condition. I heard my Dad tell my mom last night that you've turned into the town sweetheart."

"Oh," Ziva said finally, for lack of anything better to say. "Well, thank you, again, I think." She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and made her way upstairs. As they heard the click of her bedroom door closing, Josh looked at his watch.

"Well, I know Ziva said I could stay, but if I leave now, I still have time to gloat to the other guys about how I got to see Ziva sleep," he said. Gibbs knew that his words should have seemed diconcerting, but the goofy look on his face made the boy too amiable to scold. "I'll come by again tomorrow to see how she's doing. And I'll probably have more food from the people on my street." He looked at Jackson. "You won't have to cook for the next six months, I swear."

And then the boy was gone, leaving the two men chuckling in front of the fire. Then a pleasant silence fell over them, interrupted only by the occasional pop and crackle of the logs burning in the fireplace. They remained quiet for several minutes, before Jackson finally broke the silence.

"What are you waiting for?" the old man asked. Gibbs looked at him.

"Pops?"

"Are you really going to make her sleep by herself in a cold bed?" his father continued. "You've been holding back ever since you got here, the past day and a half in particular."

"Dad, I—"

"Don't pull that crap with me boy," Jackson interrupted. Gibbs obediently kept his mouth shut. "Give your old man some credit. I know that you've been keeping secrets, and the relationship between boss and employee is none of my business." He paused momentarily, gathering his thoughts.

"But the relationships of my son _are_ my business," he continued. "I've been watching Ziva sleep, and I've seen in her face the same hardships I see in you. You both have lost too much, and I'll be damned if you hold back for my sake." Jackson pegged him with a knowing stare. "Both of you deserve to be happy. And you _are_ happy, Leroy, I can tell. Don't waste it."

Silence fell once more after he finished, giving Gibbs a chance to speak. He didn't and soon Jackson stood with tired sigh.

"I'm off to bed," the elder man said. "Go to her, son." With that, he turned and moved to leave the room. When he reached the door he turned back once more. "She's a sweet girl, Leroy," he said. "You break her heart, you're no longer welcome in this house."

The threat hung in the air as Jackson finally left for good. Gibbs felt like he should be offended that his father felt so strongly about Ziva, that he was willing to cut ties with his son over her. But instead, against familial instinct, he felt at peace, as if he was glad that the Israeli had one more person in her corner.

"There's chance of that happening, Pops," Gibbs said, even though he knew his father couldn't hear. "Not a chance in hell." And he meant it; he felt the promise in the core of his being. He was inexplicably, irreversibly connected to Ziva, and he had no intention of ever betraying that.

He stood and quickly folded the blankets that had been left on the couch. Then he tidied the room, rinsing the dirty mugs and leaving them in the sink to be washed the next morning. Then he silently climbed the stairs, avoiding all the creaky floorboards with practiced ease. He padded towards the third door on the right, and carefully opened the door.

Poking his head in, he saw Ziva laying on her side, her breath steady and even. She looked peaceful, and Gibbs was careful to avoid waking her as he crept up onto the bed behind her. He smoothly spooned his body against hers, his arm encircling her waist to pull her close to his chest. She shifted under his touch, waking only slightly before she settled against him, her hand finding his. A soft cough passed her lips, but then her breath evened out, and soon she was asleep once more.

Gibbs pressed a kiss to her head, and didn't pull away, leaving his nose buried in her curls. Her scent washed over him, and he reveled in it, allowing it to cover him completely. He felt himself relax against her, his body molding itself to hers. His eyes closed, and he allowed his consciousness to slowly drift away until he was sound asleep.

* * *

When Jackson checked in on them the next morning, he smiled when he saw his son and Ziva still asleep, Jethro's strong arms draped protectively over the smaller Israeli. Soundlessly he pulled the door shut, resolved to let them sleep as long as possible. He made his way quietly down the stairs and began to make a pot of coffee. As he let the pot fill with water, he paused to look out the window above the sink. The snow sparkled and winked at him, and he sighed. In an abstract sort of way, he realized that he, and his son, had been granted the greatest Christmas gift any of them could have imagined.

"I think he'll be okay now, Shannon," he said softly to the silent house. "He'll be okay."


	20. Secrets and Subterfuge

Looking around the bullpen, Ziva found Gibbs' absence strangely disconcerting. It was not that she was worried about him; she had been with him when he had gotten that mysterious phone call. As Tony and McGee traded quips, she thought back to what had happened earlier that morning:

It had passed as usual, with the both of them following their individual routines. When they were just leaving for the Navy Yard, Jethro had received a call. His face had immediately hardened, but the call had been short, ending with him giving a curt "I'll be there" before hanging up.

"We have a case already?" she asked.

"No," he said bluntly. Bending down, he kissed her cheek. "I'm going to be a little late getting to the Yard," he continued. She looked at him quizzically, her curiosity now piqued.

"Jethro—" she cut herself off. Looking into those cool blue yes, she realized that if he had intended to tell her about what the call was about, he would have done so without her needing to ask. She sighed, resigning herself to not knowing, at least for the time being. "You know that you won't be able to keep this secret forever," she said playfully. "I _will_ find out what it is about."

"I don't expect anything less," he responded, a grin crossing his lips. "You probably won't have to look for long, though."

"Good. I have always been more of an instant gratification kind of girl," she purred.

"Yeah," he replied. "I know." Still smiling, he turned her and pushed her towards the front door with a sharp pat to her rump. "Now go, or you'll instantly gratify your way into being late for work."

"And that would be a bad thing?" she quipped over her shoulder. But she obeyed, and soon the door was shut behind her.

Returning to the scene in the bullpen, Ziva almost laughed at the paranoia McGee and Dinozzo were exhibiting at the prospect of investigating Gibbs' desk. A few moments of antagonistic banter passed between them before Ziva finally volunteered her services. She stood confidently, and moved towards Gibbs' desk. In the next moment though, she froze, suddenly realizing what she was about to do.

She needed to play this off carefully. If she was too comfortable going through Gibbs' things, the rest of the team would suspect something. She had rifled through Gibbs' desk before, when she had been new at NCIS. It had been late at night, with the lights dimmed and no one else had been in the building. No one had ever found out.

She knew that any anger Gibbs might display at her actions today if he caught her in the act would be only for show, but the bright open space and milling agents in the squad room was making her nervous. She used it to her advantage.

"Dinozzo, watch the elevator. McGee, the stairs. Now." They obeyed, even as Ziva silently congratulated herself. Not only was she calming her nerves by setting up a perimeter, the anxiety she felt at possibly revealing her relationship with Gibbs was interpreted as the fear of being caught.

The computer proved fruitless, but she had known it would be. Even if Gibbs had been technically savvy enough to use his computer as a day planner, he had only just gotten the call that morning. It wasn't until they traced his phone that Ziva first felt the pangs of concern.

What was he doing in Anacostia? But then he called, giving them the order to gear up. Things had to be normal for him to being calling them out to a scene, right? The concern persisted, though, and when they arrived at the scene, it only intensified, instead of disappearing. For when she finally saw Gibbs, he was accompanied by none other than Trent Kort.

One look at the CIA agent raised Ziva's hackles. She was not predisposed to hating the man like Tony was, but the smug yet secretive smile in Kort's gaze told Ziva that he thought he had the upper hand. And that awareness put her on edge. Kort was more similar to her than she would like to admit. She knew the finer points of international espionage, just as he did. She knew that Kort was very dangerous, and impossible to trust.

Kort grinned knowingly in her direction, making her stomach churn. Ziva knew at that moment that he had been the one to call Gibbs that morning; his presence here was not a coincidence. At first blush, the scene implied that the three victims had killed each other, but she knew better than anyone that it was easy enough to alter a scene enough to make it seem that way. She could have done it herself easy, even before her assignment to NCIS.

Soon Gibbs was apprising them of the situation—at least, the situation as Kort had led him to believe and his own assumptions. The next hours passed in a blur of suspense and adrenaline, though the appearance of Siravo's accountant had been anti-climactic. Just before they all left the scene to return to the Navy Yard, Gibbs pulled her aside.

"What's your take on all this?" he asked in a low voice.

"I do not like it," she responded, her voice equally low. "Kort has left too much unexplained. Why did you agree to meet with him in the first place?"

"I owed him one," he said after only a moment of hesitation. Ziva looked at him in shocked disbelief.

"You _owed_ him one?!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "What the hell were you thinking?! You never _owe_ someone like Kort anything. Ever." She paused, looking at him with disdain. "I never thought you, of all people, would be in the pocket of Trent Kort." Anger shot through Gibbs' eyes, but when he spoke, his voice was carefully calm.

"He did me a favor."

"A _favor_? What kind of favor did you need done that _Kort_ had to be called in?"

"Mr. Pain," he said simply.

"What? Who the hell—?" Then realization dawned on her. "Ducky." She shook her head, closing her eyes as she attempted to keep her temper in check. "Ducky never opened up to you when he wanted to turn himself in to the embassy." She sighed. "Kort got you the information."

"Yeah," he said. "And I told him I owed him one in return. I honor my debts."

"Dammit, Gibbs, I know you do." She gave him a hard look. "The point is that you should not have a debt in the first place." She raised a hand to cut off his retort. "Yes, Ducky is worth it. But there were other options, Gibbs. If you hadn't been so damned concerned about Ducky's feelings, you could have found out from _him_ what had happened, instead of going to Kort."

"I did what I had to," he said, but she had already begun to turn away.

"He cannot be trusted," she declared. Suddenly, his hand shot out and caught her by the arm, yanking her back. Her head whipped around to glare at him.

"I know he isn't telling the truth," he said. "He can get us Siravo, and I'm willing to let him think he has the upper hand until we get the bastard off our wall." She kept eye contact, but couldn't hide the humorless smirk that was creeping across her lips.

"Fine," she said. She wrenched her arm from his grasp. She began to leave, but turned back. "You know what really gets me though?" she asked, stepping up close to him, keeping her voice low. "You had a whole team ready to bend over backwards for Ducky. But your damn pride would not let any of us help, would it? You had to shoulder it all. He is _your_ friend, only _you_ can help him, right? Well, consider this. You have an ex-cop with the ability to talk the ears off a mule who could have stalled the Ambassador for time. You have a computer genius who can find absolutely _anything_ on _any_ computer. You did not use them until it was too late, until you had already signed on the dotted line." She eyed him skeptically. "Simply because of your pride." She turned to leave once more, but again turned back to face him.

"Oh, and for future reference," she said. "Anything _Kort_ can do, _I_ can do better." This time when she moved away, she didn't stop. He watched her go, indignation burning in his gut. She had no reason to be upset. His arrangement with Kort had nothing to do with her. And she should know him better than to think he could not handle the likes of Kort.

* * *

Gibbs was just getting out of the elevator when his phone rang.

"Yeah," he said in way of greeting.

"We have a situation at the safe house," came Ziva's voice. It was curt, tense, but then again, spending over 24 hours with that high maintenance rat of a witness would do that to even the toughest of constitutions. Add Dinozzo into the mix and Gibbs was sure she was just about ready to kill somebody. Or she was still upset with him from that morning. Given that she was probably used to Dinozzo's antics by now, Gibbs' money was on the latter option.

"Yeah, Ziva, what is it?"

"Just a second." Uh oh. He knew that tone. She was lying in wait for something, ready to pounce on her prey as soon as it walked into range. Maybe he was wrong; perhaps Tony really was being an ass. Dinozzo must have really done something to piss her off.

However, Tony had actually gotten better with his previously rampant sexual innuendos and movie references. He was still an idiot sometimes, but he had at least learned to lay off the "crazy ninja chick." Gibbs' gut twisted.

Suddenly, the other end of the line exploded into a cacophony of sound. He counted six gunshots, and as soon as they registered in his mind, his brain instantly went into overdrive. The unmistakable thuds of two bodies hitting the ground came muffled through the speaker next to his ear.

Ziva did not like to empty her clip. She preferred to fire in short bursts, to make her bullets last as long as possible. Where the hell was Dinozzo? He was supposed to have her back, but Gibbs had not heard his voice in the background at all. And now Gibbs didn't hear Ziva, though the gunshots had ended. The silence reverberated through him as he quickly reached his desk, violently yanking open his gun drawer.

"Ziva?" He pawed through the drawer, searching for his service weapon. "Ziva!" he could not keep the panic from creeping into his voice. "Ziva, talk to me!" The silence seemed to stretch on forever, and Gibbs saw her in his mind's eye, lying broken and bloody on the floor of the god-forsaken safe house, her body riddled with bullet holes. His gut churned painfully, enough so that he wanted to vomit at the thought of losing her to the same fate as Shannon and Kelly. But then, a click on the other end of the line, as the phone was picked up.

"Under control," Ziva's voice told him, her voice cool as could be. Her report given, she hung up the phone. Gibbs felt his knees wobble slightly as he took a deep breath, snapping his own phone closed. _Son of a bitch_. He cursed himself for overreacting.

Of course Ziva wouldn't let a couple of international gangster thugs get the better of her. She was Mossad after all. It was why he had assigned her to protection detail instead of McGee. But _dammit_, nearly giving him a heart attack had not been part of the plan. And she sounded so damn calm.

No, not calm. Pissed. She was still angry with him about Kort. He sighed. Not even a firefight would shake her enough for her to forget her icy fury.

Oh, they were definitely going to be having a conversation when this case was done.

* * *

As soon as Kort left the Navy Yard after taking Perry into custody, Gibbs had everyone go home. Their suspect was in custody, the leak had been found, and the case had been solved. There was no reason to keep them all there when the only thing left to do was paperwork. They vanished within minutes.

Dinozzo was especially quick to leave, complaining about the poor water pressure of the safe house and the lumpy mattress; all complaints which made Ziva roll her eyes. Gibbs forced himself to not let his eyes linger on her tired form longer than usual. They made brief eye contact before she left, but her gaze didn't thaw in the slightest.

Gibbs lingered in the bullpen for about ten minutes, going through the motions of organizing some of the files on his desk. To anyone else observing, they would have seen a dedicated workaholic, but in reality, he was simply giving Ziva a chance to get a head start.

It wouldn't do for him to appear to be following his subordinate to his house, and it would give her a chance to have a moment to herself before he arrived. Gibbs drove to his house in his usual style, swerving in and out of lanes in order to get to his neighborhood more quickly. With only a minimum of close calls later, he pulled into his driveway with ease.

He exited the car and pocketed his keys as he made his way to the front door, knowing it would be unlocked. He twisted the knob with grim determination, his mind focused on one thing as he pushed the door open. He saw her the moment the door opened, and as soon as he did, his eyes refused to leave her as he kicked the door shut behind him.

She was sitting on the stairs that led to the upper level, her arms resting on her knees as she leaned forward. She lifted her gaze from her clasped hands to watch him as he entered, and they were now gazing at each with a burning intensity that was common between the two lovers. Only this time, it was not full of passion, or yearning. It was tender, full of raw emotion brought on by the last few days.

After a moment, Ziva rose and descended the stairs. She didn't tear her eyes away from his until she was close enough to return the embrace he offered, pressing her body up against his. Her arms encircled his torso, planting her hands on either side of his spine. Many times they would wander in lustful curiosity, but tonight, they remained steadfast.

He returned the hug just as chastely as she did, his arms encircling her in a protective gesture. He took a deep breath, inviting her unique fragrance of flowers and spice to calm his senses. He closed his eyes, reassured that she was not injured, or worse, dead.

"You scared me," he confessed, his voice low. "At the safe house."

"I know," she said, not lifting her head from where it rested against his chest. "I would not have wanted to get that phone call either. But it was necessary."

"Yeah," he agreed. "If things had ended differently, your phone call would have given Dinozzo and Perry a fighting chance." He paused. "But did you have to be so damn calm about it?" He felt her grin slightly.

"Calm was necessary to maintain the upper hand when the assassins intruded. And afterwards, there was no further reason to be worried." She looked up at him. "They were dead."

"I know that," he said. "Now." He gave her a somewhat stern look. "Over the phone it wasn't so clear as to exactly who was doing the shooting."

"I do not think that could be helped." She looked away as silence fell. After a few long moments, she continued. "I knew you would be worried." Gibbs rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh, fighting a grin.

"You were punishing me."

"Yes." She met his eyes again. Her gaze was not quite apologetic, but it was conceding nonetheless. He knew that she was acknowledging that her behavior had been less than mature. He smiled; after having four marriages, he was familiar with the silent treatment.

"Why did the thing with Kort bother you so much?" he asked. Her gaze hardened. When she pulled away, he let her go, knowing she wouldn't stray far. She folded her arms over her chest as leaned back against the wall, giving him a view of her sinuous profile.

"I know Kort," she said after a few long moments. Jealousy flared within him, immediately jumping to conclusions. She glanced at him, and seeing his rage, quickly clarified. "Not like _that_. I know people _like_ Kort. I used to _be _Kort. I know what he is capable of. He has no qualms about manipulating you, the team, or the entire agency to suit his own needs. And he is good at what he does. It is evident in the fact that he is still alive."

"I know all that, Ziver."

"Yes. You do. And you always claim that you hate all that. All the subterfuge, the politics. You said you honored your debts, Jethro, and you are right. It is because you are an honorable man. You would much prefer a bar brawl to a coup. And yet you went to Kort for help before you came to us. Before you came to _me_." She sighed. "Jethro, I could have found the information you needed just as quickly as Kort. Probably even faster. I have more contacts than him, even within his own agency. You know that. And you still went to him."

"I didn't want to put you that position," he said. It was true, but even as he said it, it lacked conviction.

"What position? In a position to help a man I have come to respect as both a friend and a colleague?" She looked at him in disbelief. "You honestly think we would care if got in trouble for helping Ducky? All of us have been in trouble before. Dinozzo has been framed for murder, what, three times now? McGee shot that undercover cop. And I have been both framed in a roadside bombing and inadvertently caused the death of a suspect in my custody. And we have all helped each other through all of those problems. What made you think this time would be any different?"

Gibbs opened his mouth to answer, only to realize that he had nothing to say. She was right. They hadn't given him any indication that the threat of danger would dissuade them from wanting to help. And they were the best people for the job. It was why they were on his team, after all. She had hit it right on the head this morning: his pride.

That, and he hadn't been sure Ducky had been innocent. He couldn't risk having Ducky being right in his guilt, and letting the team know the truth. He had been prepared to bury any evidence that incriminated his oldest friend. But he knew that it wouldn't have mattered to the team. If he wanted to bury the evidence, they would have provided the shovel. He knew it now, but at the time, he hadn't trusted anyone.

And he had been wrong to be so distrustful.

"I'm sorry."

Her head whipped around to look at him, her face a mask of shock.

"What?"

"I'm sorry." She blinked.

"Oh." Then her brows furrowed in confusion. "But—we were going to fight about this for hours." She turned towards him. "You were going to tell me it was none of my business or that I am overreacting." She paused. "Weren't you?" He grinned, rocking back on his heels.

"I thought about it," he said. "But you're right. I should have trusted you guys. I didn't and it put me in a position that could have ended very badly."

"But you never apologize. It is a—"

"I know what it is," he said. "But that doesn't apply to friends… or to us."

She pulled away from the wall, turning to face him. Her arms dropped to her sides, and a small smile tickled the corner of her mouth. When she cocked her head to the side in question, he stepped towards her with a full-blown grin. She looked up at him smiling for a moment, but then her gaze flicked away, and when it returned, something had changed. The smile was still there, but it had left her eyes. Something was bothering her.

"I do trust you Ziva," he said, sensing what was on her mind. "I trust the whole team, but you most of all." He brushed a thumb over her cheek. "Don't doubt that. Ever." A long moment passed, and Gibbs feared that it hadn't been enough to assuage her doubt. But then she gave him a dazzling smile that lit up her entire face.

Her then leaned down and kissed her without reservation. She responded immediately, with the kiss remaining tender and sweet. When they broke apart a long moment later, Ziva kept her face close to him, her nose brushing his neck.

"Does this mean we do not get to have make-up sex?" she asked, her voice a husky whisper. He leaned down until his own lips were even with her ear.

"We did make up, didn't we?" he whispered back. Before she had a chance to do more than give him a loving gaze, he had recaptured her lips with his. This time, he let hands wander, and wander they did. They explored each and every inch of her soft skin, and his touch remained gentle throughout.

"I love you," he whispered. His heart lifted when she whispered back.

"I love you too."


	21. Ignorance Is Bliss

_A/N: Sorry about the lack of updates. School is insane, and things are getting crazy elsewhere too. But here is a little mini-update from the last episode. I had another, longer one half-typed, but that ended being complete crap. So here is my attempt at a straight-up comedy!_

_Also, I want to give everyone a heads-up... There will be no postings over the summer. I know, I know, that's when we need them the most, but it can't be helped. I am going to boot for 13 weeks, starting in early May, where I will be without telephones and computers for the duration. And trust me, I will be missing writing this stuff as much as you'll miss reading it. But I am coming to school in the fall, never fear, so I will be more than ready to take on the new season!_

_Also, I am keeping the two story lines (featured in "Something More" and "Something More Addendum") separate. They can stand alone, so I think I will let them. I will change the title of the Addendum to something more catchy, and will make a note in the summary to check out this story for a more solid background, just for future reference._

_So I will write as much as I can until early May, and then it will be dead for 13 weeks until I return from boot... whoever heard of a fanfic-writing Marine? I just love being part of the minority ;)_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"Something weird is going on."

Tony and McGee were each sitting at their desks in the otherwise empty bullpen. Gibbs and Ziva had already left to go investigate their victim's recently located car, leaving the remaining two agents to chase other possible leads. At least, that was what McGee was doing. Tony, McGee knew, was just getting started on what the computer geek knew was going to be a very annoying conversation.

"What do you mean, Tony?" McGee delivered obediently, knowing the senior field agent would not shut up until he got whatever this was out of his system.

"Gibbs chose Ziva over me," Tony pointed out. "Which is _absurd_. I mean, I _am_ senior field agent. I have more experience. And, let's face it: I'm better looking." McGee sighed in resignation. So it was one of _these_ conversations.

"Not really all that absurd, Tony," he said. "Abby is working on some secret project, which our victim had some kind of connection to. Ziva has more experience in the field of espionage than you do. And no—" he cut off Tony's oncoming remark. "Watching _all_ the James Bond movies doesn't count." Tony visibly deflated. "Not only that, she also doesn't talk as much you do. She's actually the more logical choice." McGee paused. "And _she's_ more attractive."

"Oh ho ho," Tony laughed. "Better not let Crazy Ninja Chick hear you say that. You'll be singing soprano for a month!" Then Tony returned to the topic at hand. "But seriously. What's up with the favoritism?"

"What favoritism, Tony?" McGee asked in exasperation. "I already told you why Gibbs had every logical reason to choose Ziva over you." Suddenly, McGee stopped typing, a brilliant idea forming in his mind. The next moment he was typing just as quickly as before, with Tony none the wiser. "Well, there is that _other_ thing." At this, Tony perked up like a dog catching wind of a bone. He stood, and not-so-casually strolled to McGee's desk.

"What other thing?" he asked, tucking his thumbs in his belt loops. McGee fought a smile.

"You haven't felt the tension around here lately?" Tim asked, staying in character. "It's so thick you could cut it with a knife."

"I haven't—"

"I mean, you'd think they'd be able to hide more efficiently. You know, with Gibbs being a Marine, and Ziva a Mossad officer. But they've really been letting it show lately." He glanced at Tony. "You _sure_ you haven't noticed?"

"What are you talking about, McProbius?"

"Oh come on, Tony," McGee continued. "I know you must be familiar with it by now. Everyone gets that feeling every now and then."

"What feeling?"

"You know, that burning sensation in your gut when you see someone. It starts out small, sometimes, but little by little grows as you spend more time with that person. It grows until it makes your stomach churn and your senses tingle whenever you see that special someone." McGee leaned back in his chair, getting into his little spiel. "If you're not careful, it can turn into a wildfire, affecting everything that gets in its way. It gets to the point where you can't think about anything else, and your entire existence revolves around your intense feeling for that one person."

"Wh—Bu—I know that feeling," Tony said finally. He leaned over McGee's desk conspiratorially. "You don't think Gibbs and Ziva—"

"Oh yeah," McGee said, continuing to type on his computer. "I think they most definitely do."

"No…"

"Yes…"

"Really?"

"Really really."

"You think Gibbs and Ziva—"

"Hate you."

"lov—Wait, what?" Tony was visibly struggling to see where the conversation had changed directions. McGee finally allowed himself a smug grin.

"I think they might very possibly hate you, Tony," he explained. "I mean, you and your antics have made things extremely tense around here. Not to mention incredibly difficult to work. And with Abby's safety on the line, it's no wonder Gibbs decided to leave you here." He scoffed. "You actually thought Gibbs and Ziva were—" He let the sentence hang. "Now _that_ is absurd."

"But—" Tony sounded genuinely offended, but then saw the glorified grin on the Probie's face. "That was cold, McHurtful. No probie snacks for you." With that he turned and stalked back to his own desk, leaving McGee to smile sunnily as he clicked away on his keyboard. A few minutes later, it occurred to him that Tony may have actually been hurt by his words, so he quickly peeked in the senior field agent's direction. To his relief the man seemed unfazed, as he was busy chatting up the secretary from the front desk downstairs. Tall, blonde, killer legs… yup, McGee determined. Not fazed at all.

* * *

Six hours later, Gibbs and Ziva had returned, new evidence had been taken into account, and now Gibbs had left once more, this time selecting Tony to accompany him. McGee was silently joyful; he was sure that if Tony had been left behind again, he would have never let it go. And so now Tim and Ziva were quietly working in the bullpen. McGee was just starting to relax and lose himself in the workings of his computer when Ziva spoke up, voicing a question that elicited tortured groan and an undignified thud as Tim allowed his forehead to drop to the desk in defeat.

"Why do you think Gibbs picked Tony instead of me?"


	22. Silent Promises

Jethro Leroy Gibbs couldn't help but feel anger towards his senior field agent. Though Tony had not asked to be put in this situation, he had not been completely innocent in its conception. After all, it had been Dinozzo who had gone snooping into Ziva's personal life, under the pretense of wanting to protect her. The Italian had stated that it had been one partner looking after another, but Gibbs suspected it ran deeper than that. And seeing Tony gazing at Ziva as she waited for news of Rivkin's condition, the Marine's suspicions were proven well-founded. The senior field agent had deep, personal feelings for the Mossad liaison officer; in fact, Gibbs could see that Dinozzo was downright smitten.

Not that Gibbs could altogether blame Dinozzo for feeling that way, given that he himself had fallen for the Israeli. But it had been Tony's snooping that had forced Gibbs and Ziva to limit their contact outside of the office. It had been at Ziva' insistence and Gibbs had reluctantly conceded to her caution. Gibbs mentally chastised himself: if not for their temporary separation, Rivkin would not have had a chance to be at Ziva's apartment, and this entire situation could have been avoided.

Rivkin. Hate burned in Gibbs' gut as the shady Mossad operative came to the forefront of the Marine's mind. He had warned the bastard to stay away from Ziva. And knowing the keen intuition of most Mossad operatives, Rivkin had probably seen the unspoken threat, and the carefully guarded secret of Gibbs' relationship with Ziva. Gibbs recalled the stand-off in that LA alley, which had quickly become a territorial dispute between the two alpha males. To the untrained eye, the confrontation would have been between NCIS and Mossad… but to the two men in that alley, it had been about one person and one person only: Ziva. Perhaps that had been the reason Rivkin had remained in the country so long; to keep Ziva from Gibbs. Guilt plucked at Gibbs' gut briefly before concern overcame his thoughts as the nurse came out of the trauma room to speak with Ziva. When the Israeli's face fell and her gaze trailed to the floor, Gibbs knew Rivkin's fate. Moments later Ziva was speaking to him, and hollow words about reports and details were passed between them. But then, as Ziva brushed by him to leave, Gibbs offered a parting sentiment.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Gibbs closed his eyes as he silently kicked himself for being the one to start the soon-to-be endless stream of scripted condolences. He was lucky that she had merely given a slight roll of her eyes as she left; he would not have blamed her for causing him bodily harm for such an impersonal sentiment. She had every reason to distance herself from him—he had no such excuse to not be there for her. She deserved something more than an "I'm sorry for your loss," especially when he himself had experienced his own fair-share of empty words. "I'm sorry for your loss" didn't even begin to ease the pain he knew she was feeling right now. And yet, he couldn't say anything more, not in so public a place.

Nor could he bring himself to go after her. Why not? Perhaps it was because of the firestorm that sure to come as news of Rivkin's death reached Israel and Mossad. All eyes were going to be on NCIS, and on his team in particular. And Ziva was going to be in the thick of it. If their relationship came to light, it would only make things worse. Not for him; for Ziva. Gibbs could handle the repercussions of consorting with his subordinate, which would really be nothing more than a slap on the wrist. But for Ziva, the consequences of sleeping with Special Agent Gibbs, murderer of Mossad's precious mole, Ari, and being an American to boot, would be severe. Possibly fatal.

So as much as it pained him to see Ziva struggling, Gibbs would continue to keep his distance. If it meant saving her from Mossad and her father, then Gibbs would do that and more. But in the back of Gibbs' mind, a shadow of doubt began to spread. For how long would they have to continue the charade of being purely professional?

* * *

Gibbs fought the urge to glance at Ziva as she spoke to Hadar. Her visit had nothing to do with him? Why would Hadar think the visit was about him? Surely Hadar was not another of Ziva's past lovers. This visit was going to be delicate enough without having to worry about some former flame trying to take advantage of Ziva. Gibbs caught himself. Someone taking advantage of Ziva? Absurd, and paranoid on his part. Gibbs was roused from his thoughts by the sound of Ziva speaking to him.

"I have been betrayed. By Mossad, by my father, by Tony." The pain in her voice was evident to Gibb's keen ears, though it was veiled beneath layers of seeming indifference. "Who is next? You?"

It was in that moment, as Ziva stalked away, that Gibbs realized that he was not the only one displaying paranoid tendencies. But where his were childish and immature, hers were a result of years growing up in the Mossad world, and all too encompassing to brush aside. It opened his eyes to the cold truth of the situation. He was losing her. He was losing her to her mistrust, to the schemes of Mossad and NCIS, and to the demons of her past. Gibbs had helped her through the death of her brother, but it would be naïve of him to think that her problems with her family and Mossad ended there. And the Marine sniper was anything but naïve. Which left him with only one reality; Ziva was slipping away.

* * *

"You need to be able to trust the people you work with. I am sure you of all people understand that."

Gibbs heard the guarded delivery of Ziva's words. They sounded empty, but not with the same hollowness that had haunted her in DC. No, she was trying to tell him something. Tony, though her anger at him was most likely very real, was an excuse. She needed a tangible reason to stay in Israel.

Gibbs felt his heart skip a beat. No. The last time she had left him for a hidden agenda, she had been blown up—nearly killed. There was no way he was going to let her go again. But her eyes were pleading with him. He recalled the picture she had shown him back in DC, before they had left for Tel Aviv. The snapshot of her, Rivkin, and Tali. One more glance told him that she needed him to play along, to not make a scene. She needed to do this, for Michael. For the family she had already lost.

So with a look over her shoulder at Eli David, who was watching the scene with pride from just beyond the vehicle, Gibbs leaned in close to Ziva. She pulled away, and for a moment, Gibbs thought she would not let him touch her. But then she froze, allowing him to place a chaste kiss on her cheek. He fleetingly wondered what her father thought of the endearment; did he think it was an unfamiliar American custom, or did the Director of Mossad already know the kind of relationship his daughter was engaging in?

The kiss was fleeting, all too brief as Gibbs realized that it was going to be the last contact he had with Ziva for God knew how long. Anger burned in his gut at the knowledge that he had no idea why Ziva was remaining behind. There were secrets within his team, again. Gibbs had been vigilant in the year since their reunion, but it hadn't been enough. The new Director was no less secretive than Jenny had been, and, like Jenny, Vance had been unable to leave Gibbs' team out of it. And once again, it was his team taking the hit. Ziva was taking the hit, after she had taken so many hits already.

Her departure from the team may be planned, but the events with Michael and Tony were not. Those had been all too real, too tangible. And, most of all, all too damaging. Gazing into his lover's eyes, Gibbs could see the wounded emotions, emotions that were quickly fading as his departure approached and her need to commit wholly to Mossad consumed her. A quiver of fear ran through the Marine, a sensation he had not felt since the days of leaving Shannon and Kelly to deploy.

Who knew how long it would be before he would see Ziva again? Would she still be the Ziva he had come to know and love? Or would she be the shell that had first come to NCIS, unwilling and unable to trust anyone she came into contact with?

As his view of Ziva was obscured by the closing hatch of the plane, Gibbs felt the quiver of fear transform into a wash of panic. Struggling to maintain his composure, he remained seated, though every instinct was screaming at him to run back onto the tarmac and remain with Ziva, to stick with her through the hardships ahead. But she had her role in the coming events; his role was to allow Ziva to fulfill hers. That, and to do what he could in America to speed her return.

And that was what he silently vowed to her as the plane began to move down the runway. No matter what it took, no matter what shape she was in when she came back, he _would_ get Ziva back.

And that was a promise.

* * *

A/N: I'm back! And not a moment too soon! The first thing I did was catch myself up on my NCIS (I had missed not one, but TWO episodes!). The finale shocked me slightly, but I can see where they are going with it. They writers say we don't know what's going to happen, but I think I can predict the general shape of things. But let's just say, Gibbs let Ziva go just a little too easy for it to have been completely unforeseen by our omniscient team leader.

And yes, I may be a big bad Marine now, but I figure I'm still allowed to like NCIS as my favorite TV show. After all, NCIS serves the Marine Corps as well as the Navy. Now, I can see myself having some issues with Army Wives, as an issue of toeing the party line so to speak, but enough on that. Basically, NCIS is still allowed to be my vice, and I shall continue to enjoy it to the utmost! Happy reading, and let me know how you like it!


	23. Guardian Angel

A/N: Okay, I figure everyone else in the NCIS fanverse is in wild approval of last night's season premiere. I know I am. But instead of raving about it, I am doing it the utmost honor of turning it into a fanfic. Because, honestly, what else is there that so clearly communicates our affection for the show? This is essentially my interpretation of the premiere, with my own ship leanings, of course. They are coming *this* close to making TIVA canon (though technically, I consider it canon already, they are so blatant with the TIVA tension), but I am still an author of the ZIBBS persuasion, so this is my little homage to the material presented last night.

I also fully intend to make use of some missing scenes and perhaps a "later that night" chapter or two. Just because this is much too good to have only a single tag :D Enjoy!

* * *

The door to her cell slammed open, jarring her into painful awareness. Before she had a chance to force open her swollen eyes she felt a hood be yanked over her head. He was upset this time, as upset as she'd ever seen him. She was dragged to her feet and pulled roughly out of the room. The air that managed to find its way beneath the hood was different, fresh. By now she could taste the difference between the air of her cell and the air of the hallway. But she wasn't in the hallway for long—the air changed again, and she tripped over something—legs? -- before she was shoved onto a hard wooden chair. It was then she realized he was shouting. At her? No. Someone else. The person on the ground, maybe… No, that didn't make sense either.

Then the hood was snatched from her head, and she gasped as the sudden light sent needles of pain lancing through her skull. As her vision cleared, she saw a silhouette. Recognition hit her and her heart fluttered in her chest. But wait—his features became clearer, and her stomach plummeted.

Tony.

Why? Of all the people she dreamed—hallucinated, really—of coming to her rescue, Tony Dinozzo was last on her list. But that wasn't really fair. There was really only one person she had longed for in her captivity. Where was he? Why wasn't he here?

She managed to tune back in to what Saleem was shouting. Give information, other person stays alive. Got it. Would giving information make her selfish? Selfish for earning the bullet for herself, and leaving the others in the hands of him?

Others? Right. Legs on the floor. If Tony was here, then McGee was here too.

"Are you all right, McGee?" Her voice sounded foreign to her. But Tony didn't seem surprised to hear her speak. Wait—she had been saying something before. What did she say? Tony was saying something now. He was rambling. The snatches of words she caught were disjointed, and didn't make sense. He shouldn't be here. She wasn't worth it. He tries to be strong, and he is in his own way. But here, in this place, even she was having difficulty holding herself together. Tony wouldn't make it. Neither would McGee.

Tony was foolish for coming after her. Had she told him that yet? How many of her thoughts had she said aloud? She couldn't tell. She wanted to shake her head, to clear it. But she knew from experience that it only made the pounding worse, compounding the fuzziness clouding her thoughts. Tony was talking again. He meant to get caught, to get stuck in this hole with her. Tony wasn't stupid enough for that. He would only get himself in trouble if he had a way to get out of it. Which meant—rescue.

The world came into sharp focus. A way out. A way to leave this place, a way to go home. She flashed to a house, a home, with a basement. She wanted to be there, in that basement. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through her veins. Her mind went into business mode. What was the plan? Had they made the plan with possibility of her being unconscious in mind? How much of their plan relied on her being able to function on her own? How long did they have to last before rescue came?

"I don't know," she heard Tony say. "Hours… days."

Days? As quickly as it had come, the hope that had flared within her fizzled out. She didn't have days. Neither did they, if the growing volume of truck engines and men shouting orders outside was any indication. The last time they had been so loud, they had moved camp, and this time, she doubted they would be taking prisoners along with them.

The tear that traced its way down her cheek surprised her. She had thought her tears dried up months ago.

"Ziva, can you fight?"

Oh, Adonai. Of all the things to ask. She didn't know the answer. She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. She wanted to the moment he first backhanded her across the face. But she had to be honest. She would be doing them no favors if she lied. She wasn't even sure if she could walk under her own power, let alone fight her way out of here. Before she had a chance to say so, their tormenter returned.

The knife to her throat made her gasp as her head was yanked back. Her mind raced to think of something, away to save her friends. They could still fight, if given the opportunity. He would need Tony and McGee as leverage. She was certain she said that one aloud this time. He responded by pressing the knife tighter against her throat. She fought to keep a laugh within her chest. It figured, though, that after so many days of wishing that knife had actually slit her throat, it would be when she had finally found something else to hope for when it decided to do the deed.

Pizza? What did--? Oh. The knife was suddenly gone, and the sounds of a struggle behind her sharpened her focus again. Scuffling on the ground, the skitter of the knife as it slid across concrete. Her breath caught in her chest as she heard the all-too-familiar click of a gun cocking. She willed McGee to freeze where he was, to not make any sudden movements. When the gunshot never came, she knew that McGee had followed his instincts. But that didn't help them any now. Saleem had a gun, and with all three of them bound, he clearly had the upper hand.

Her mind raced as he stood, keeping the gun cocked and aimed towards McGee. With her too weak to do anything more than turn her head, Tony drugged and bound to his chair, and McGee sprawled on the ground with a gun trained on him, there was no way that any of them were able to take him by surprise.

She thought about it though. She eyed the gun in Saleem's hand, trying to find some way to wrest it from his grasp. But she knew that she wouldn't be strong enough, or quick enough. But even so, Tony was smug. How could he be so cocky at a time like this? This man was dangerous, sadistic, and had them all at a complete disadvantage. Even Tony was smart enough know when a situation was lost. So why was he still so sure of himself? This was more than Tony being Tony—he had something up his sleeve. But what was it? Tony was telling him now.

"You have thirty seconds left to live, Saleem."

Confusion filled her. Did he honestly think this would be like one of his movies? Didn't he know that Saleem would kill them all without hesitation? It may take him a while to do it, especially her, she had pissed him off too many times when he was interrogating her to make her death a swift one, but he would not hesitate. But Tony continued to speak.

"Remember when I told you my boss was a sniper?"

_Sniper._ Ziva blinked, and in an instant a flood of memories washed over her. _Marine M-40A1 Sniper Rifle— hand-loaded Lapua 308 boat tail, full metal jacket, moly-coated bullets_. Her heart caught in her throat.

Gibbs.

He was there, watching. Her mind wanted to doubt, but she knew in her gut. And her gut was proven dead-on by the tinkle of glass and the spray of blood as Saleem was struck down. An echoing gunshot followed, drowning out the thump of Saleem's body dropping to the floor. Her eyes darted between the hole in the glass and the body on the ground, shock still gripping her.

It didn't seem real. Her eyes finally locked on Saleem's corpse, watching as blood pooled around is head. The sticky halo was all too familiar, but this time, instead of feeling dread, she was… relieved. Relief for knowing her tormenter was dead, and that it had been Gibbs who had taken the shot. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a wry voice told her it was too good a death for the bastard; his death should have taken days.

But then the world started moving again as another gunshot took down another gunman that burst into the room. A spray of bullets perforated the roof of the cell, and then her hands were free. With a start, she realized that for the first time since being captured on the freighter, she was completely unrestrained. She felt the wild urge to fight, to run, but her legs didn't obey. In the next moment McGee and Tony had each wrapped one of her arms around their necks, gently supporting her as they moved out of the cell.

She didn't protest, didn't struggle against them. Instead she focused on doing her part, putting all of her energy into putting one foot in front of the other. It was a laborious task she realized, and she found it difficult to work past the pain. Pain in her chest, her ribs, her feet, arms. Her head felt like it was about to explode, but she pushed on, knowing that if she faltered for even a moment, it could cost them all their lives.

In the back of her mind, she thought about Gibbs, about the shot that had saved them all. She remembered that the American military had a term for snipers providing covering fire. What was it? Angels. Guardian Angels. How fitting it was, that Gibbs had filled such a role for them, for her. And when they turned the corner, seeing his form silhouetted by the blessed light of day, light that had been out of her reach for so long, she knew that it was true.

He was her Guardian Angel.


	24. Reality Bites

A/N: Okay. This was concieved, and mostly written, between the first and second episodes of the new season. Picks up directly after the premiere. But that does not mean I did not watch the new episode... While I loved the episode as a whole, and I liked the interaction between Ziva and Gibbs... though the dialogue was jacked. Oh gods, hearing Ziva say that Gibbs was "the closest thing to a father" she had was like a shot to the heart (anyone else hurting after that little revelation?). So yes. Let's just pretend that little part did not happen at all. The TIVA scene was touching, I'll give you that, but still. Hmpf.

Also, this is a standalone chapter that is only semi-canon... It was half written before episode 2 and half written post episode 2. Just so you know, I wanted to post this ASAP, so my usual editing process was nonexistent for this chapter. Bear with me.... maybe I'll edit later sometime and repost. Who knows?

My next possible chapter will be based on episode 2 itself. I may try my hand at a spoof. I might try to twist the "daughter-father" bull into something I can use... hehehe... points to whoever can figure out where I'll go with it! XD

In any case, enjoy!

* * *

"Officer David," Director Vance said, sitting back in his chair as he gazed intently at the battered Israeli."I am glad to see you're safe and back at NCIS." His words were met belatedly by the barest of nods. "Go home," he ordered, unable to ignore the blatant exhaustion written across her features. "Get some rest. Come back when _you_ are ready." He was met with a blank stare. "Take as much time as you need," he added. Brown eyes met his briefly before quickly looking away. She nodded again, then turned to leave the director's office. She made it as far as the door before she stopped and turned back. Anticipating the question behind the mildly inquisitive gaze, Vance quickly spoke. "_I_ will take care of your father," he said, "and apprise him of the situation. There should be no reason for you to return to Israel unless you wish to do so." A flash of relief darted across her features, but was gone as quickly as it had come. She turned to leave once more, but froze yet again when Vance continued. "NCIS needs its liaison officer, Ziva," he said, his voice kind. "The agency is going to its damndest to keep you here, if you want it."

Ziva remained motionless for a long moment, and Vance knew his words had registered. But then she opened the door and disappeared through it, without the slightest indication she had heard. Gibbs, who had remained silent where he stood next to the conference table across from the Director's desk, moved to follow his newly reacquired agent.

"Special Agent Gibbs." Vance's voice drew Gibbs to a halt, turning to face the Director as he did so. " I do not want to see you or your team in this building for the next three weeks," he declared. "Officer David takes as much time as she needs. Her position will be waiting for her when she is ready." Vance paused. "Take care of her, Jethro." The Marine looked at him, and for the first time, Vance saw an honest respect in his gaze.

"I will, Leon," came the reply. And then he was gone, the office door shutting behind him.

* * *

The car was silent as Gibbs drove to his house. He vaguely tried to remember what state he had left it in, but as he hadn't spent much time there that summer, he was having difficulty recalling. Looking Ziva sitting quietly in the passenger seat beside him, however, he doubted that it would matter. The surge of relief that had swelled within him at the sight of Ziva in Tony's and McGee's arms had initially given him hope, but now concern churned in his gut. The Marine within him knew that Ziva was in a dangerous place right now. At the moment, her eyes were tracking the trees that raced by as they sped along the highway, but on the trip home, and during most her visit to NCIS, her gaze had been disconcertingly empty. Unfocused, staring, reacting only when someone moved too close for comfort. Gibbs hoped that it was mostly shock, that she would snap out of it when she realized she wasn't dreaming, that she really had been rescued. But another part of him knew the other side of the dilemma; that if not treated as delicately as possible, she would be lost, and they would be left with an empty shell. He had seen it before, and the dread of that possibility gnawed at him more with each passing moment.

Pulling into the familiar driveway, Ziva barely gave the vehicle time to come to a stop before swiftly exiting, shutting the door behind her with a thud. Gibbs immediately threw the car into park and followed, keeping a few paces behind so as not to spook her. Her quick stride surprised Gibbs, and as she turned the perpetually unlocked door and entered their home, he felt hope begin to creep forward. But as he too entered the house, that hope went scurrying away again.

Ziva had come to a stop in the foyer, as if her zeal had dissipated the moment she had reached her destination. He watched as her eyes traveled the hall, taking in her surroundings. To his disappointment, her posture was one of wary uncertainty. A moment later, she shifted slightly, nervously, and Gibbs realized that she wasn't sure what to do with herself now that she was inside the house. After taking a steadying breath, Gibbs came to her rescue.

"Ziva," he said in a hushed tone, doing his best to not startle here. Her head whipped around and she met his gaze for a split second before she turned away. She didn't move away, though, which Gibbs took as a good sign. "Why don't you go and take a shower while I heat up some tomato soup?" he suggested, his voice still low. Under Ducky's orders, Ziva was to have non-solids for the first day or so. As they weren't sure what she had grown accustomed to her captivity as far as food went, the doctor wanted to ensure her stomach could handle simple foods before progressing to a more balanced diet.

With a silent nod, Ziva glided away to the stairs intent on using the shower adjacent to Gibbs' , their, bedroom. Her progression up the steps was slower than her walk to the front door, and Gibbs suspected that her injuries were largely to blame. She moved with a stiffness that implied her entire body ached, but beyond what little Gibbs could see around her long pants and long sleeves, he had no idea just how extensive the damage might be. Ziva had been reluctant to submit to an examination, even at Ducky's familiar hands, and the good doctor hadn't pushed her, deciding it was more pertinent to ease her state of mind first. Instead he had given Gibbs a list of instructions and a list of warning signs that could indicate the presence of a brain injury, infection, or damage to her internal organs. Fever, cold sweats, sudden unconsciousness… the list went on.

Gibbs went to the kitchen and began going through the motions of heating up the soup, his not mind not really on the task. He found himself pulled into his thoughts, going over the events of the past few days in his mind. It had been a familiar experience of controlled chaos, with last minute plans and briefings, and then, those long hours between the time he lost contact with Tony and when he himself had pulled the trigger on his "Kate". He had once thought he would never want to use it again, after Shannon and Kelly died, but after Ziva--- well, he had found that wasn't necessarily the case.

The soup was just being poured into mugs when Ziva reentered the kitchen. He had thought she would have taken a longer shower, but then, he shouldn't have been surprised that she hadn't. Ziva was nothing if not efficient. She sat gingerly at the kitchen table, her hair damp and heavy against her shoulders. Gibbs' keen eyes saw the grimace of pain as made contact with chair, though it was gone almost immediately as she attempted to hide her weakness. Her eyes drifted around the room, taking everything in, but she didn't speak, and she didn't look at Gibbs. Deciding against calling attention to the pain she was so valiantly trying to hide, Gibbs grasped the two mugs and carried them to where she sat. Her body was tense, but she took the mug he offered, wrapping her hands around it carefully.

As if on autopilot, she brought the mug to her lips and took a sip. Gibbs was grateful he had made certain to not get the viscous fluid too hot—she had not taken the time to test or cool the soup in any way before tasting it. He took a swig of his own soup, gazing at her as he did so. It felt surreal, to be sitting in his kitchen with her—but each time he noticed another bruise or cut, he was reminded that it was real, and that what she had been through was even more so. Her injuries were not the only changes, he now saw. She was thin, most noticeable by the now-prominent bones of her wrist, and in her face, where her cheekbones were just slightly more pronounced. Her eyes had changed as well. Where they had once been bright and alert, constantly taking survey of her surroundings, they were now still, slightly unfocused as she was lost in her thoughts. He found it was better than when they had been at NCIS, he decided, when she had become completely detached from what was going on around her. It had frightened him, to see her stare so vacantly at no spot in particular. Her shoulders too, which had always been square and proud, now had the slightest hunch to them, as if she were perpetually on the defensive.

Ziva took a few more shallow sips from her mug before she relinquished her grasp on it. She placed it on the table in front of her, and her hands drifted to her lap, her gaze following. Gibbs quickly debated whether or not to say anything. It was clear that she did not intend to consume any more, but Gibbs doubted she had been fed enough in the last three months for such a small amount of soup to be considered healthy.

"It's gonna get cold," he said finally. He knew his words sounded juvenile even as he said them, but he was trying to avoid being condescending or worse, giving orders. It was best to tread carefully, he figured, until he had a better idea of how Ziva would react.

"I am not hungry," she said. Her voice was dry and strained, almost a croak. It was a welcome sound to Gibbs' ears, despite its gravelly quality. He decided to try his luck with being just a little more direct.

"Ziver, you need to eat more than that."

"I am not hungry," she repeated, her eyes still glued to her lap. Without giving him a chance to say anything more, she stood and left the room. Gibbs remained where he was and listened to Ziva tread slowly back up the stairs. When a door squealed shut a moment later, he realized that she had claimed the guest room for herself—they had never bothered to grease the hinges of that door, as no one ever used it. The realization pained him, though he wasn't really surprised. He had doubted Ziva would feel comfortable sharing a room, let alone a bed, with him after all she had been through. Thinking about it a little bit more, he realized that he was grateful that she had made the decision herself—he had no idea how would have broached the subject with her on his own if she had not. If he were being truly honest with himself, he knew that he was in completely uncharted waters. He didn't know how to treat PTSD, despite his ability to spot the symptoms. He was no good at getting inside people's minds, like Ducky was. Nor was he one to pretend that everything was back to normal, that nothing had happened, which he suspected was how Tony might react. And he was by no means able to ask veiled questions that prodded people to open up about their problems, which McGee seemed to have a knack for.

It was in that moment, that he realized—He had no idea what to do.

* * *

The next two days passed slowly, filled with empty moments and cautious advances on Gibbs' behalf. Ziva seemed to grow more aware as the days passed, but she still remained lost in her thoughts much of the time. When she spoke, it was with a low voice and a short direct answer in response to whatever question he had asked; she never once instigated a conversation on her own, and Gibbs had yet to see her make eye contact with him.

The dark circles beneath her brown eyes did not fade away, and Gibbs knew she was not getting much, if any, sleep. He refrained from going to her at night to offer comfort, heeding Ducky's warnings about the danger of triggering a flashback. Contact between them was minimal, limited to barely-there brushes in the rare moments Ziva allowed him to get close enough.

It was now the third night since her rescue, and Gibbs sat on the front porch, nursing a mug of coffee as he looked out across the darkened neighborhood. The silence was soothing—this stillness was natural. The unnerving quiet of the house was not. He was used to the house being filled with laughter, casual words tossed around as they went about their day, even the occasional song when Ziva felt so moved to sing.

The silence of her absence had bothered him, after she had refused to come back to DC with him. It had been an added incentive for him to stay at NCIS as much as possible, searching for any news of her.

He had known something was wrong that day, standing on the tarmac in Tel Aviv. But she had looked him dead in the eye, silently indictating that whatever it was, she had it under control. It had been a look that told him that she didn't give a damn about Tony killing Rivkin, and that she would explain everything as soon as she could do so without being under the watchful gaze of her father.

But that phone call never came. Neither did the email nor the letter. There had been nothing. After the first week of no contact, Gibbs had started to worry, but he had shoved his concern away, sure that she had gotten caught up in re-acclimating to Mossad life. But then another week passed, and then another.

He had searched for her at that point, even calling the Israeli embassy under the guise of needing to know where to ship some of her forgotten personal items. When they had been unable to produce her, his infamous gut had clenched with dread. Something was wrong. He had pulled every string, called in every favor he could, trying to figure out where she was, but it hadn't done any good.

When Vance had told him the freighter she had been taking to the Horn of Africa had gone down, his heart had seemed to stop beating for several agonizing moments. But then his ears had roared and his pulse pounded through him with a vengeance. A sense of déjà vu had assaulted him. It couldn't be happening, not again. Not after Shannon and Kelly. Not again had he not been where he was needed.

But it had been true. And he had lost Ziva—his Ziva. As soon as he had run out of denials, guilt had flooded him. He should have been there. He should have protected her. He should have dragged her back onto that transport and told her father where to shove it. He should have killed Rivkin in that alley back in LA. He should have insisted that Ziva continue to stay with him that last month, and let her draw away to keep Rivkin from discovering their relationship. But he hadn't done any of that, and now Ziva was dead.

The guilt had inevitably taken him done that familiar path of no return. The thirst for vengeance had slowly filled his every waking moment, until it got to the point where he had to constantly force himself to focus on whatever case he was working on. After hours had been fair game, however, and he had spent many nights overturning any stone that would uncover Ziva's killer. He had known that it hadn't been bad weather that sank the freighter, not if it was off the coast of Somalia. After all, he didn't believe in coincidences. But it hadn't been until Tony declared his intent to avenge Ziva that progress had started being made. Getting the entire team involved had sped his process tenfold, and within another month they had managed to track Saleem through his Caf-Pow deliveries.

Lying atop that desert dune, only a few days ago now, had been all too familiar. Gibbs knew that it was dangerous for him to be there. He had lost a part of himself the last time he had pulled the trigger to avenge a loved one. Ziva had helped him regain part of what was lost, but since her death… he knew that this time, there would be no going back.

But he had waited there, watching what he could through the scope. Every so often Saleem would come into view, but never remained still long enough for Gibbs to get a bead on him. But both Tony and McGee were out of sight, either sitting or laying on the floor. As the minutes ticked by, and activity increased in the courtyard outside, Gibbs knew their time was running out. But then, Tony had delivered, somehow getting Saleem to pause long enough for Gibbs to focus, aim, and fire.

There had been no time to feel the searing emotions he had felt after avenging Shannon and Kelly. Another gunman had quickly come bursting in, and after eliminating him, Gibbs had abandoned his vantage point to go help clear an exit path for his remaining two team members. He had run to the compound as quickly as he could, arriving just in time to shoot another gunman that was busy firing down another hallway, presumably the one his men were attempting to traverse. Moments later, Dinozzo and McGee had appeared, bruised and scraped but relatively unharmed. It had taken a moment for Gibbs to reconcile the battered form draped between them with the Ziva he had left in Israel, but as soon as he did, his heart had soared with realization.

Recalling that day as he now gazed out at the night, Gibbs realized that he had not lost the part of himself as he had expected. For the first time, his skills as a sniper had directly saved someone's life. The knowledge shook him. In the Corps, while his actions had undoubtedly saved the lives of future victims, snipers had always been viewed as bringers of death rather than preservers of life. But this time, instead of losing that final part of himself, he had regained the only part that mattered anymore—Ziva.

Taking one last swallow of his coffee, Gibbs stood and went back inside, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him. Striding silently towards the darkened kitchen to deposit his mug in the sink, an errant shaft of light caught his eye. It was coming from the open basement door, and Gibbs' keen ears could hear the faintest shuffle of movement from beyond the doorway. He quickly made his way towards the basement, swinging the door open wider as he passed through it. Coming to a stop at the top of the landing, he took a moment to take in the familiar form standing in the center of the empty basement.

* * *

Ziva glanced over her shoulder as she heard the familiar creak of the top step. The ragged carpenter's pants were easily recognizable, negating her need to look at anything above the height of his knees. She was secretly grateful to not have to glance at his face. She was well-aware of how pathetic it was of her—after withstanding months of torture, she was afraid to look her lover in the eye.

But as pitiful as it was, she could not work past it. She could not rationalize it away. Every time she had a chance, every time she came close, she could only avert her gaze or duck her head. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes she was so familiar with, held too much power. She knew that if she ever got caught by his gaze, she would have no way to defend herself, powerless to keep those eyes from lancing through her fragile defenses. And if he saw past her crumbling walls, she would no longer be able to ignore the truth. And it was that denial that was keeping her from falling apart.

"I could not sleep," she said in response to his gentle utterance of her name. It was true enough—she hadn't been able to sleep since her rescue. Well, she hadn't really slept before her rescue, either. Not wanting to spend another night pacing the guest room, she had finally come to the basement, hoping to find the comfort she usually did within its shadowy walls. But instead, she found herself shocked as she looked around the familiar space.

It had changed. The room that had been the birthplace of her new life, and had been privy to every major event in her life since, had changed. It was bigger, cleaner. It seemed lifeless and clinical, with the usual scattering of tools on the worktable in the corner, and it looked as if it hadn't been used in a long while. But the most drastic change, the change that hit her like a punch to the gut, was the fact that it was empty.

The warm shadowed shelter that had acted as her refuge during her captivity was gone, as gone as the boat that was now conspicuously missing. Nearly all of the memories she had escaped to over the past three months had centered on the boat she had helped build. She had found comfort in the remembrance of the warmth of Gibbs' arms as he had reached around her to guide her hands as they sanded the wooden planks. She had distracted herself with thoughts of the intimate moments that had been shared in the basement. Some sexual, yes, but even more that had consisted of simply sitting next to one another and engaging in late night conversations.

At some point, after one of Saleem's many sessions, she had realized that in many ways, the boat had reflected the growth of the relationship that had developed between her and Gibbs. It had started with a sturdy, but skeletal frame—the trust they had shared after Ari's death. And it had slowly but surely gained shape, , built upon by gentle hands. Soon, after careful care, it had become whole. It was able to sail on stormy seas, and keep its occupants safe. It wasn't impervious, she knew, but even if it did sustain damage, it could always be repaired.

But now it was gone. Hurt filled her, followed quickly by guilt. The boat, the symbol of their relationship, had disappeared completely. Not even a trace of sawdust remained to indicate that it had ever been there. For some reason, a reason for which she strongly blamed herself, Gibbs had gone out of his way to get rid of it. Memories of keeping secrets, seeing Rivkin, and finally of lying to Gibbs' face on the tarmac, seeing the confusion and hurt on his face as he had turned his back on her. It had been her intention, to get him to leave her behind, but she hadn't liked it any more than he had. And she had never gotten a chance to explain to him, to give him a proper goodbye, before her father had sent her to Africa. She could only imagine what Gibbs thought of her now, and she didn't blame him. But the realization that he had turned his back on her, on them, and gotten rid of the single most symbolic feature of their life together rocked her awareness, and the pain of it was enough to drown out the persistent ache of her physical injuries.

Her hands started to shake, and she began to clench her hands into fists in an attempt to steady them, but the half-hearted attempt did little to stop the trembling. She barely noticed though, as she found herself helpless against an onslaught of emotion. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on something else, anything else. But her usual safety net was in tatters, obliterated by the reality that assaulted her as she stood in the middle of the empty basement. Her breath caught in her chest, and felt panic creeping in on her consciousness. Questions swirled in her mind, battling one another as they darted dizzyingly across her thoughts.

Why had he given up? She hadn't. She had held on, for him. So why? Why was easy. Why was because she had lied to him. Withheld information, abandoned him, and abandoned the team. She had deliberately turned her back on the investigator he had trained her to be in favor of returning to the Mossad operative she used to be.

But what now? Where could she go? She didn't have anyone else. He was all she had left. Rivkin was the last prominent figure from her childhood, and now he was dead, like Ari and Tali. Her father didn't give a damn about her, and if she went back to Israel now, as broken as she was, she would either be sent on a mission or written off as damaged goods. How could she keep herself from being forgotten, from becoming invisible, if the people who cared no longer do so?

What was she doing here? Her vision wheeled, and she quickly knelt, not trusting herself to remain upright. She tried to suck in a breath, but it felt like she was breathing molasses. Somewhere her mind registered hearing Gibbs call out her name, and recognizing the concern and panic she heard in his voice. Why was he concerned? He shouldn't be. She had lost that privilege months ago, when she had first started pushing him away, when Rivkin had shown up in DC.

And then he was there, in front of her. She could smell him, that distinctive combination of old sawdust and bourbon and coffee. She felt the warmth of his body as he knelt before her; it was just as she remembered it, just as she had imagined, only in her dreams that damn boat wasn't gone and she wasn't broken. She choked back another breath, keeping her head down. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't.

"Ziva," he said, his voice alarmed, but still soft. The tenderness would have struck her as funny, if she weren't struggling for breath. As it was, she dreaded the words she knew would come next. "Ziva! Look at me."

No. She couldn't. Not now. Not like this. She could barely breathe, barely think, and he was asking her to do the one thing that would destroy her completely. Didn't he know? Couldn't he see? She wheezed for air. No, no, NO!

But his next move surprised her as his hands came up to gently frame her face. His warm palms pressed softly against her jaw line, his fingers curling around the back of her neck. She closed her eyes as she was sent reeling back into her memories, the memories that she now knew could cause pain as well as they could sustain hope. Her own hands came up to clasp his wrists, but she didn't pull away. Her heart and her head were at war; her mind told her it was hopeless, that there was nothing left for her here, while her soul knew that there was nowhere else she would rather be.

"Ziver, look at me," Gibbs repeated. When she didn't respond, his words were followed by a gentle but firm press from his hands, tilting her face up to look at him. Her eyes flew open in reaction, and then flickered around the room. Her panic wasn't allowing her to focus on any one thing, and she was trying to find something, anything that would keep her gaze from his. But he wasn't giving up. "Look at me, Ziva. Focus on me. Take a deep breath, and focus on me. Look at me, Ziva." His voice was calm and strong, the voice he used when he wanted something done and wouldn't take no for an answer. Her body responded to the authority in his voice out of habit, and her eyes met his for a split second.

She froze as the cool blue eyes she had been avoiding for the past three days held her in a strong gaze. She couldn't pull away, she couldn't turn her head; she couldn't even blink. But instead of the icy cold eyes she had expected, the glare he usually reserved for criminals and politicians, his eyes were warm. They piercing, despite their warmth, just as she suspected they would be. But there was no judgment in his gaze, no anger, and no accusations. All she found in his eyes were concern, acceptance, and… love.

The whirling thoughts racing across her mind dissipated, leaving her with nothing but the sound of her heart as it pounded away in her chest. Her grip on his wrists tightened as, without the barrage of words assaulting her, there was nothing to keep the flooding emotions at bay. They welled up inside her, and her grip on his wrists tightened as she fought to keep them away. But, for all her efforts, she knew it was a losing battle.

Gibbs was surprised to feel how chilled her skin was beneath his touch. But he pushed that to the back of his mind, knowing there were more pressing problems to worry about. The first and foremost being Ziva's breathing. She was almost to a full panic, and was just managing to get enough air to keep herself from passing out. And her eyes… the brown eyes that had before been either vacant or clouded were now wide and vulnerable. The raw emotion in them shocked him, but he refused to look away. As he watched, her expression turned pleading, and her eyes filled with tears. A strangled sob escaped her, and before he had time to second-guess his actions, he had wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him.

The dam had broken. Ziva offered no resistance to his embrace; instead she clutched the front of his t-shirt, holding onto it for dear life as sobs wracked her bruised and battered frame. Gibbs' hand came up to stroke her, in the familiar way it always did when she was upset, while the other curled around her torso, fully enveloping her frail body. He could feel the shirt grow damp from her tears, and while it nearly broke his heart to hear them, he was grateful for them. Three months of god-knows-what was fully impacting her now, and he suspected that if it had not, she would have continued to drift away from him. But now, maybe now, she could start on the road to recovery.

For hours he held her, not saying a word as he waited for her tears to abate. Even when her tears had run out, the sobs continued. She clutched him close to her, pressing herself against him as if he were her last lifeline. At some point he picked her up in his arms and carried to their spot beneath the stairs, out of the harsh light that now filled the empty basement. Eventually her sobs ceased, and as he felt her breathing even out, he glanced down at her, only to find that she had fallen asleep.

But still he did not move. He wasn't about to risk waking her, and it had been too long since he had last held her for him to willingly relinquish his hold on her. So he merely pulled one of the old blankets he had lying nearby closer to them, and had draped it over her still form. Gibbs then pressed a kiss to the top of her head before leaning back against the wall behind him. Abstractedly, he began to wonder about how he was going to help her after this. He had little to offer, but he knew he had to do something. But then he knew what he needed to do.

He would continue to do what he did best. He would love Ziva, unconditionally and unabashedly.

It was in that moment that he realized—he had always known what to do.


	25. You've Been Spoofed

A/N: Okay. So. This is what my strange mind came up with in response to the season's second episode entitled "Reunion". As I figure many Zibbs shippers to commiserate with me about the Ziva-Gibbs heart-to-heart that ended with the whole "closest thing to a father" revelation, I decided to post this little ditty. It is just for fun, and my knee-jerk reaction. It was what instantly came to mind when I thought about in regards to "what would happen if...". As that little heart-breaker of a doozy is pretty much empirical, it was difficult to try to twist the words around to fit my needs, so this chapter is largely open-ended and out of character. I am currently thinking about trying my hand at something a little more serious in response to the trust-issue plot line, but I'm kind of liking this as a bridge between the show and the fluffy Zibbs stuff I tag it with.

Let me know what you all think!

* * *

"And the closest thing I have to a father is accusing—" Ziva paused, confusion filling her as the atmosphere of the moment changed drastically. A smirk was clearly displayed on Gibbs' lips, throwing Ziva's already rusty emotional awareness into a tailspin. She looked at him in puzzlement. "What?" she asked. The smirk remained where it was as Gibbs' left eyebrow rose a quarter inch.

"Father?" he replied with a question of his own. No more words were needed as comprehension dawned on Ziva's features with a roll of her eyes and an exasperated huff.

"You know I did not mean it in that way."

"I sure hope not," Gibbs replied blithely. "Otherwise we would be… hinky."

"You must have spent too much time with Abby while I was in Africa," she accuse. She began to pace in agitation. "I _meant_ that you have filled many fatherly roles that Eli has failed to. You care for my well-being, you see me as something more than an employee, and you have taught me lessons of greater value than anything my father has taught me." Gibbs rose from his perch on the sawhorse to approach her, his amusement lingering in his gaze as he met her mid-pace.

"Well, my care for your well-being is more than paternal," he said warmly. "You _are_ more than my employee. And I sure as hell hope that your father never taught you some of the things I have. Especially that one thing we tried in the bedroom—"

"Dammit Jethro, I was being serious," Ziva interrupted. "My point is, you are the most important person in my life. You are more than my boss, more than simply my boyfriend. I do not know how to put it into words, but it is right here." She placed a hand on her chest. "And your hesitation, it hurts. Right here." She paused for a moment, letting her hand fall to her side as she regarded him. "And it hurts to think that everything you have done for me, everything you did to rescue me, you did thinking you couldn't trust me." She met his gaze, and in it he found confusion, hurt, and regret. "I have always trusted you Gibbs. But part of that trust was the fact that you trusted me in return."

"I do trust you, Ziva."

"But then why did you hesitate?"

"Because what Eli said was true enough," Gibbs replied. "You used the death of your brother to get into my good graces. And if you were my employee, you would be on a plane to Israel so fast you wouldn't know what hit you." Then he grinned, his mirth returning once more. "But like you said. You are more than an employee. And I know better than to think you were simply following your father's orders that night. I've been there for the nightmares, the guilt. That was real."

"You are not making any sense," Ziva said, her frustration tangible as she tried to understand what he was trying to say. "Do you trust me or not?"

"I trust you."

"Then why did you not want me to come back to the team?"

"I do want you to come back."

"But—" Her words were smothered with the scorching kiss he pressed to her lips. She froze for a moment as shock overcame her, but then her senses returned and she responded with equal passion. When Gibbs pulled away, Ziva was marginally unhappy that he did so.

"That answer your question?" Gibbs asked, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Absolutely not," Ziva responded. "But I think another one of those will make me forget what I was asking in the first place." Gibbs grinned.

"The bottom line, Ziver, is that I love you. I wanted to save you because I am a selfish man. I wanted you to be with me. NCIS needs you, yes, but I need you more. Trust is not an issue. The last, and only, time it has been was the day I first met you. Finding out first-hand that Eli David is a lying, manipulative bastard isn't going to change that anytime soon. Especially because I was able to deduce that on my own." Ziva regarded him for a moment, and then awarded him with a small smile.

"Why didn't you just say so?"

"Because you're so cute when you're perplexed," Gibbs admitted with a cocky grin. But then, without warning, his hand came up and bopped her on the back of the head. When she looked at him in questioning surprise, he gave her a mock-glare. "That was for comparing me to your damn father," he explained. His words were quickly followed by a sweet kiss. His hands drifted to her waist, pulling her closer. She obeyed without resistance, gladly melting into his touch. After several long moments, they were forced to part to catch their breaths.

"And that," he murmured into her ear, "is because I'm not."


	26. Together Again

A/N: Here it is! The chapter we've all been waiting for! This is more than just a episode recap, which definitely is more in sync with the rest of this story. I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it!

And for the record, this was an awesome episode.

* * *

Gibbs tossed the form on the large stack of files that stood on Ziva's desk with an air of triumph as he strode past.

"Get started," he said casually. "Probie."

He took a seat at his own desk and watched as Ziva grabbed the paper in puzzlement and quickly scanned its contents. Her brown eyes lingered on the blue stamp for a split second before they lit with excitement. She turned to look at Gibbs, and for a moment, he thought she was going to question the document's authenticity. But to his surprise, she smiled.

Gibbs felt his heart skip a beat as he took in her joyous grin. It was the first honest to goodness smile he had seen in months. Her eyes were wide and bright, and her smile equally so. Gone was the shadow of the past few days, as was the carefully crafted mask of guarded neutrality she had worn since her rescue.

Gibbs smirked. If he had known that the approval letter was all it would take to solicit that smile, he would have done it weeks ago. As he watched, her expression quickly turned serious.

"Yes, Boss," she said. With that, she sat and pulled the first file off the stack, opening it without delay. Gibbs bit back a chuckle; the smile had disappeared from her lips, but not her eyes. Her excitement was still tangible, mixed with newfound enthusiasm.

All things considered, Gibbs realized as he turned to his own work, he had the better end of the deal. He had made Ziva happy, which was a triumph in and of itself. He had found a way to keep her permanently in the United States. He had filled the empty slot in the Major Case Response Team, which appeased the Director. And on top of all that, he now had a Probie who already knew "the rules".

* * *

"Special Agent David," McGee said theatrically, "would you like a ride home?" It was the end of the day, a blessedly quiet one, and the team was preparing to leave the Navy Yard.

"That would be extremely helpful, Special Agent McGee," Ziva responded in kind. "Thank you."

"Actually, how about a celebratory dinner?" Tony spoke up. "As Senior Field Agent, it is my duty to welcome all of our newest Special Agents into the ranks of Team Gibbs. My treat," he added.

"You didn't offer to take _me _out to dinner when I started here," McGee accused indignantly.

"Oh, stop being so selfish, McGreedy. You're lucky I'm offering now!"

"I'm in," Gibbs interjected, much to the others' surprise. "Where?"

"How about that new Italian place down in Foggy Bottom?" Tony suggested, quickly recovering quickly.

"That'll work." Gibbs snatched his keys from his desktop and strode purposefully towards the elevator. "Tell Abby and Ducky. Agent David and I will meet you there." A moment of silence followed his directive as Tony and McGee processed the words. Ziva immediately began walking in his direction.

"Sounds good boss!" Tony called as the elevator opened and Ziva and Gibbs stepped inside. "We're right behind—" his words were abbreviated by the sound of the doors _ding_ing closed, "…you."

* * *

The ride to the restaurant was spent in silence. So much had happened in the past week, both agents welcomed the quiet. This stillness was light and comfortable, not tense and oppressive like it had been when Ziva had first returned from the desert. They made it to the restaurant with time to spare, thanks to Gibbs' uncouth driving methods. It had been a while since he had comfortable enough to drive in his usual style with Ziva in the car—he had subconsciously considered her to be too fragile for it, until now.

Gibbs pulled into a parking spot and turned the car off. For several long moments, neither of them moved to exit the vehicle. Instead they sat patiently in the continued silence. Finally, Gibbs turned to Ziva, a question poised on his lips, only to be surprised as Ziva had already made the first move.

All movement on Gibbs' part ceased as soft lips captured his in a heated kiss. A gentle hand came up to rest against his cheek, as if to keep him in place. If his brain hadn't gone blank with shock, he would have noticed the absurdity of the restraint—he had absolutely no intention of being the first to pull away. Before Gibbs even had the presence of mind to kiss her back, Ziva pulled away. Her hand remained on his cheek, her thumb brushing tenderly against his flushed skin as she gazed into his eyes.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For everything." As he looked back into her intense gaze, Gibbs could see that her words were not simply a formality. In fact, he could see that the words barely began to describe the emotion she was working to keep within her. The sight was a welcome one, one he had been looking for ever since Rivkin had come to town.

Again, before Gibbs had a chance to react, she pulled away, this time exiting the car and closing the door behind her. For a long moment, Gibbs sat motionless as his mind worked furiously to process what had just happened. Then, a slow grin graced his features as he sat back in the driver's seat. Another moment passed, and then he nodded once before undoing his seatbelt.

"Better than the chisel," he decided aloud. He shook his head once in mild disbelief, and then opened the door to join his newest agent.

* * *

It was well past 2300 by the time Gibbs drove Ziva home. The dinner had been pleasant, with lots of laughter and good-natured jokes being shared by all. Ziva had still been a little reserved, but it was impossible to deny the vast improvement that had seemed to occur in the space of only a few hours. Situated between Gibbs and Abby, she had been relaxed and content, even joining in on the conversation when she was able to get a word in edgewise.

Now, as Gibbs pulled the Challenger into the driveway, she was obviously drained, but hadn't lost the cheer of the night's festivities. Soon they were inside the house and as Gibbs started a batch of coffee, Ziva joined him in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her now-bare feet crossed beneath her. Just as in the car, neither felt the need to speak. It wasn't until Gibbs thought back to the case of Staff Sergeant Cryer's death that he realized something didn't sit well with him. He didn't doubt her story, but he wondered if she might have left something out. After a short internal debate, he decided to risk asking her about it.

"Ziva," he said slowly, trying to decide how best to phrase his question.

"Yes?" Her voice was calm and smooth, the huskiness of her post-Somalia days gone.

"You were on the Damocles for several weeks."

"Yes." Her tone was still light, but the slightest bit of wariness could be heard.

"You knew your liaison with the crew was a Marine."

"Yes."

"Did you…?" Gibbs' voice uncharacteristically trailed off as he realized he had absolutely no idea how to proceed.

"You want to know if I slept with Daniel Shalev." Well, blunt and to the point was always one way to go. Ziva's candor took him by surprise, as did her adept perception.

"Yes." It was his turn to revert to monosyllabic responses. Ziva sighed as she shifted on her chair. Gibbs turned to look at her, and found she was now looking at him intently with one arm wrapped around her left leg as her opposite foot rested squarely on the ground.

"I have not lied to you about anything that happened on the Damocles after I was no longer required to protect Mossad operations," she informed him.

"I know that," he responded truthfully.

"And are you sure you want to be asking that question, knowing that I will not lie to you?"

Gibbs' gut twisted painfully. It wasn't an admission, he reminded himself, not a confession. He considered her question. He didn't really _need_ to know, he admitted. It wouldn't make any difference to him at this point. She could have slept with the entire Kidon unit and he would still love her. But did they need any more secrets between them, more unanswered questions? No.

"Yes," Gibbs answered with finality. "I do." Ziva looked at him intently for a long moment before giving a nod in acceptance. Not breaking eye contact, Gibbs waited with bated breath for her answer.

"No."

Gibbs blinked.

"No?"

"No." Her lips curved in a tiny half-smile. "I did not. I thought about it," she admitted with a tilt of her head, "but I did not." Elation filled Gibbs as his gut relaxed and he watched Ziva stand and approach him. "I remembered what happened the last time I slept with someone who was a poor substitute for you," she admitted. She took one of his hands in hers as she gazed up at him before reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. Gibbs wrapped his free arm around her, quickly joined by the other as she released his hand to return the embrace. He held her tight for several long moments, reveling in the feel of her touch. Her warmth seeped into him and he welcomed it. It was then that he discovered that she no longer carried that familiar scent of flowers and spice about her. It made sense, as the apartment that had helped create that scent had been destroyed after Rivkin's death, but it was just another distinct change that could be detected in her. But Gibbs knew that it was one more thing he could help her find, to go hand-in-hand with her new life as an NCIS Special Agent.

When the coffee machine beeped the end of its cycle, they pulled apart. Ziva leaned against the counter beside him as he pulled out two mugs and filled each with the fragrant brew. He handed one to Ziva and stood next to her against the countertop, and for several minutes they sipped in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Gibbs was once again the one to finally break the silence.

"You only thought about it, huh?"

"Mmhm," she responded simply. Both agents looked either straight ahead or at their mugs, neither feeling the need to glance at the other.

"Well," he responded amiably as he raised his mug for another sip, "at least you only thought about it with a Marine."


	27. Family First

A/N: This fic started as a simple tag, but then it started to sound like a recap of the episode. I decided I did not like that, so it quickly took on a life its own. Just so you know, there are several curse words in here. S***, mostly, so do not read if you are too young for such language.

Enjoy!

P.S. I am re-updating this, so if you've already read this once even though you get a second alert, it's a fluke. I was recently informed that my impression that Iraqis speak Farsi was in fact incorrect. I'm just switching that out for the correct information, that they speak Arabic. I apologize if my misinformation offended anyone. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Ziva spent the ride to Gibbs house in relative silence, allowing Tony to ramble on about some movie or other. She had been hesitant to go to the suburbs with Tony, of all people, but Gibbs had assured her that he had hidden any trace of Ziva's long-term presence at the house. While it bothered her to have to hide evidence of their relationship in the privacy of their own home, she knew it was necessary. She was not willing to risk ruining her chances of becoming more than a probationary agent by having her status as Gibbs' lover become common knowledge.

Besides her concern, Ziva was looking forward to seeing Gibbs' goddaughter and her mother. She had not seen them since she had decided to remain behind in Israel. Since the death of Mike Franks' son, Gibbs had taken to visiting his mentor more often, and had soon begun to take Ziva with him. She and Leyla had quickly become friends, as Ziva was able to converse with her in her native Farsi before Leyla had gotten comfortable with using English. Over time, Ziva had been privy to seeing baby Amira grow. Even as an infant, she had been as beautiful as her mother, and was one of the calmest babies Ziva had ever come into contact with. Where most babies stressed Ziva to her limits, but Amira had the opposite effect, and Ziva looked forward to spending time with her.

Franks had been less friendly than his daughter-in-law. Not only did he resent having someone who was not part of his unconventional family in his paradise-home, he had disapproved of Gibbs' affection towards her. Franks had been extremely gruff with her during her first few visits, but as he became more familiar with her ability to give as good as she got, often returning the quips and barbs he sent her way, he had eased slightly. But it had not been until she had dislocated the shoulder of a man who had tried to grope Leyla at the cantina that he fully accepted her into his carefully chosen family. At least, he had before she had broken away from the team, and from Gibbs.

When Tony pulled into the driveway of the familiar single family home, Ziva paused before exiting the car. She waved tony on without her, claiming she needed to make a call. What she did not share with him was that one of Gibbs' nosier neighbors was coming down the street towards them. The last thing she needed was to be accosted by the elderly woman in front of Dinozzo. This particular neighbor was overtly fond of Gibbs and made a point to call Ziva a "hussy" each time she saw her. Ziva did not know exactly what a hussy was, but the woman's tone implied it was less than friendly. Gibbs had merely chuckled when Ziva had asked him for the definition, and told her not to worry about it.

As soon as the woman had passed, Ziva exited the vehicle and strode purposefully into the house. She refused to hesitate at the sight of the subtle standoff between Tony and Franks, instead brushing between the two men.

"This has been very educational, gentlemen," Ziva said, pushing past Franks and Dinozzo to where Amira and Leyla were waiting in the living room. She bit back a smirk as she exchanged glances with Leyla, signaling for the young mother to not let on that they were already familiar. In Ziva's many visits with Gibbs to Mexico, it had been mentioned more than once that the rest of NCIS did not know about her relationship with her boss. Leyla nodded minutely in acknowledgment, and Ziva wasted no time in greeting the young girl in her lap.

"Lady Ziva!" Franks' voice seemed surprised at her appearance, and Ziva wondered briefly if Gibbs had informed him that she was alive and well. He obviously had heard that she was dead, that much was certain given Leyla's delighted expression. "Glad to see you're here. Gibbs send you?"

Ziva responded in professional affirmation, determined to keep Dinozzo unaware that she had spent so much time in this family's presence. She let Tony relay Gibbs instructions as she sat and pulled Amira into her lap. As she hefted the girl, she was amazed at how much she had grown in the months she had been absent. Looking at Amira's mother, Ziva could see hundreds of questions swirling in Leyla's eyes, overshadowed only by honest relief.

Ziva wasn't all that surprised. In the wake of her decision to leave the team and remain in Israel, there would have been few people with whom Gibbs would have been able to fully voice his emotions with. Not that he would ever actually talk about it with Franks; no, they most likely had simply shared a couple of beers, but even that simple act would offer comfort to Gibbs. But Ziva doubted Leyla would have let Gibbs wallow—the woman had mothering down to an art form, and had the uncanny ability to get to the heart of a tender matter with finesse.

They spent the day engaging in guarded conversation, careful to not mention anything that could alert Tony to their pre-existing friendship. Though they managed to talk a little while Tony went to the basement to take a call from Abby, it wasn't until he went out into town to get them all something for dinner that the two women could speak openly. As soon as they heard the car leave the driveway, Leyla turned to Ziva in blatant concern.

"Ziva," she said in accented English, "you are alive. Gibbs said—"

"Yes," Ziva responded. "The team received word that I was dead. I would have thought he would have told you all differently since my return, however. I have been back in the country for several months now." Leyla regarded her with an appraising eye. Her brow furrowed at what she saw.

"Something happened," the young mother said, reverting to her native Arabic. It took Ziva a moment to catch on; the familiar language echoed in her ears, and for a moment she felt the oppressive heat of the desert, and saw the dark shadows of a cramped cell. But even after Leyla's voice registered and kept her grounded, Ziva did not respond. "You are different, Ziva. You have changed." A slender hand reached out and brushed over Ziva's cheek. The touch was tender, and Ziva did not shy away. "What happened in Israel, Ziva?"

"Nothing," Ziva replied honestly. However, something in her expression must have changed, for Leyla's eyes softened in understanding.

"You look how I did when I looked in the mirror, the first few months I was here in America." Ziva looked at her friend, and found a kindred spirit looking back at her. "And from what Agent Dinozzo has said, our situations are more similar than we would like to admit." Leyla's striking eyes focused knowingly. "I am not the only one who has made difficult choices, am I?" Ziva pursed her lips, refraining from giving a reply. Instead she set Amira on the ground and stood to pace the room. "It will get easier," Leyla reassured her.

"I know," Ziva said finally, the Arabic rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. "It is just—" Ziva paused, returning to where Amira now sat on the floor. She sat next to her, taking advantage of the young girl's peaceful aura. "At first I was angry, betrayed. But it had not been anything official. It was my choice to stay here in America. But now…" She doubted she could ever go back to Israel.

"Your father holds too much power," Leyla supplied. Ziva nodded, suddenly glad the woman was familiar with her family heritage. "I know what that means better than most, Ziva." Ziva averted her gaze, again focusing on the girl in her arms. "I am not going to ask you about the details," Leyla continued, "but if you need to talk about it, I would be glad to listen."

Ziva gave her friend a long look before finally giving a terse nod. Not knowing what else to say, she once again focused on Amira. She really did have peaceful eyes.

Tali had once had that same peace, and it had broken Ziva's heart to find it had disappeared one morning. She did not remember exactly what had shattered Tali's innocence, but from that moment on, her baby sister had never been the same.

Ziva hoped that Leyla was successful in preventing the same from happening to Amira.

* * *

"Whoa whoa whoa..." Tony said as Ziva pushed Leyla towards the back of the house. "You know how to shoot?"

"Yes, she does," Ziva answered for her. He did not need to know that the confidence of her words came from the knowledge that she had been the one to teach Leyla how to handle a handgun. Franks had beaten her to teaching his daughter-in-law the ways of the rifle, but he had conceded his rights to the handgun at Gibbs' prodding. He had not had a leg to stand on when he claimed the best shot should teach Leyla. It had been a close competition, but Ziva's victory had been indisputable.

Before Tony had a chance to say anything more, a window pane shattered and a small canister thudded to the carpet.

"Tony!" she shouted, alerting her partner to the start of the assault. Her words overlapped with his command to get down.

Ziva dove to the carpet, but she was too slow when the flash-bang exploded, jarring her enough to cause her to lose her grip on her service weapon. The resulting white-hot flash of light blinded her as she fell to the floor. She struggled to locate her 9mm as she heard multiple bodies storm into the house.

She tried to ignore the gruff orders to remain on the floor as her mind flooded with the need to protect Leyla and Amira, but she found herself unable to disobey. She patted the carpet around her, searching desperately for her gun while trying to maintain her focus. Panic began to creep up on her as male voices issuing brusque orders thundered around her, threatening to send her to a place in her mind she had no desire to return to. Just as her fingers brushed the familiar handgrip of her piece, a boot kicked it away and a voice cut through the din.

"Ziva?" The voice was familiar, but out of place. A moment of wracking her memory, the voice's identity came to her in a flash.

"Damon?"

"Wait a second, you know this guy?" Tony asked, confusion clear in his voice.

"Corporal Damon Werth," the large shape clarified, removing his balaclava to reveal familiar chiseled features. "USMC, dishonorably discharged."

"Oh yeah…" Tony replied, his memory of the case returning. Ziva was only slightly less surprised to see him. They had spoken several times after his case had been abandoned by the MCRT. Werth had refused to reveal the source of his supplier, or even what exactly he had been taking, and had inevitably been discharged from the Corps. Following his release from both the hospital and from his duty, Werth had initially tried to pursue a relationship with Ziva, but after her rejection, he had settled for a friendship with the Israeli.

The last Ziva had heard from him, he had left DC to try and find work elsewhere. She had missed their occasional sparring matches, but he had continued to call for several months after he left town. They had lost touch when Vance had terminated her position with NCIS following Jenny's death. By the look of things he had apparently found the work he had been looking for.

Unfortunately, none of his colleagues had noticed his recognition.

"Get your hands behind your back!" One shouted gruffly to Tony, who protested as his hands were wrenched behind him.

"What are you doing?" Damon inquired, kneeling in front of her.

"This is Gibbs' living room," Ziva replied, her tone clearly implying that _he _should be the one explaining himself.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Tony demanded.

"Rescuing a kidnapped little girl," Damon replied, "and her mother." His response came as a relief to Ziva—if Damon believed he was saving Leyla and Amira, it meant that he had not abandoned the morals he had upheld as a Marine. And it would be easier to dissuade him from his mission.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but you are actually the ones abducting them," she informed him. She looked him in the eye, allowing him to the truth of her words. He was just about to respond when his colleague tried to spur him into action.

"Hey Werth, cut the chit chat," the masked figure said from behind Tony, "just secure the prisoner." Ziva's hand curled into a fist as she shifted her weight at his use of _prisoner_. The hell she was going to be captured again. As much as she would prefer not to, she would not hesitate to fight Damon if she needed to. To her relief, Damon's expression changed.

"I can't. We're making a mistake," he said, standing to face his men.

"Bell's got a lot of money riding on this job, and we'll finish with or without you—" He never got a chance to finish as Damon lashed out, catching him by surprise. He proceeded to floor the rest of his in the space of a few moments. His movements were quick and effective, leaving Ziva in appreciative awe.

"I think we should hear them out," Damon said to the fallen forms. "Don't you?"

When there was no response, the former Marine sent a look towards Ziva. She saw the mirth in his eyes, and recognized the man she had befriended a year and a half ago. She returned his gaze with a smirk of her own as she got to her feet next to him. With mutual understanding they went about securing the black-clothed gunmen. Before Ziva had a chance to cut Tony's bonds, a gunshot echoed throughout the house. Ziva froze as her senses raced to discern where the shot had come from.

"Leyla," she gasped, springing into action. She sprinted to the basement door, Werth close on her heels. The fact that she had not yet recovered her own weapon flashed across her mind as she darted into through the open doorway, but she disregarded it when she saw not one but two strangers in the open space of the basement.

The first was near the stairs, struggling with Leyla for possession of the gun, while the second was encroaching menacingly towards Amira, who was crouched in the far corner of the basement, clearly terrified of the hulking black-clad figure.

Ziva raced halfway down the stairs before vaulting over the rail. Her booted foot collided heavily with the first man's temple as she swung down, causing him to stumble back and release his grip on Leyla. The Iraqi scrambled away, gun in hand.

"Got him!" Damon shouted as she landed, and without hesitation Ziva abandoned the first intruder to charge the one reaching for a whimpering Amira.

Ziva acted on instinct, attacking the man from behind. Her hand reached up and cupped his chin, before she could snap his neck his elbow found its way into her ribs. She lost her grip, and when his elbow slammed back a second time, it was enough to make her double over. The man turned, shifting his attention from the little girl to focus on his assailant. He reached for her, but she dropped, snapping her leg out to hook around the back of his legs and send him sprawling backwards. He rolled with the motion, quickly getting back to his feet, but she was on him in a flash, striking out with a flurry of blows that kept him on the defensive, though few actually landed. When her leg shot out again, this time in a roundhouse, he caught her ankle and twisted his body, swinging her off her feet. She rolled as well, coming to a stop some six feet away. The man closed the distance as she got to her feet, but the punch he sent flying towards her head was intercepted by the gloved hand of Damon Werth as he inserted himself into the fray.

"Get the girls upstairs" Damon instructed calmly as he shoved his cohort away. "I've got this."

Ziva obeyed, immediately sweeping Amira into her arms and sprinting to where Leyla was just starting to get to her feet. Ziva pulled her forcefully to her feet before pushing her up the stairs. Amira buried her face in Ziva's shoulder, wrapping her arms around the Israeli's neck in a vice-like grip. Ziva took the steps two at a time behind Leyla, instructing the woman to head directly up to the second floor. Leyla obeyed, thundering up the stairs. Ziva followed, ignoring Tony's shouts of concern. They did not stop until they reached the safety of Gibbs' bedroom. Her bedroom.

Ziva shut the door behind them before leaning back against it smooth surface, taking a moment to catch her breath. Leyla abandoned the gun on the bedspread before turning to face Ziva, arms reaching for her daughter. Ziva could see the fear and panic in her eyes as she approached, but somehow Leyla held it together for her daughter. Ziva relinquished her hold on the girl, and Amira quickly made the transition into her mother's arms.

"Shouldn't we leave the house?" Leyla asked, lapsing back into her native tongue. "How many men are there? It is not safe here!"

"You are safe," Ziva reassured her. "These teams typically work in groups of five—Damon is taking care of the last two now. There is no reason to leave the house."

"But what if they knew you were here and sent more than one team?"

"They did not know you were under the protection of NCIS," Ziva informed her, her voice calm. "And if there were more than one team, Damon would have told us." She met the other woman's gaze. "Trust me, Leyla. You are safest here." After a moment, the young mother relaxed slightly. Ziva gave a small smirk. "Besides, there is enough hardware in this room than all five men had combined." Leyla glanced at her.

"Really?" Ziva nodded.

"Keep Amira out of the drawers and closets," the Israeli warned, aware of the danger of curious small hands. Ziva crossed to the bed and reclaimed her weapon, checking the clip and flipping the safety on. One round was missing, Ziva was happy to see, indicating that Leyla had been the one to fire the shot they had heard. "Are you injured?" she asked. Leyla shook her head.

"No, you got there before they had a chance to touch either of us."

"Good." Ziva kept her weapon in her hand, taking some small comfort from its familiar weight. "The ground floor looks like a war zone, Leyla. I want you to keep Amira up here until the debris has been cleared." Amira did not need to see any more effects of violence tonight.

"Of course," Leyla said with a nod, stroking her daughter's hair.

"There is a bathroom through that door there," Ziva said with a wave of her hand. "Use it if you need to. Do not leave the room until we give the all-clear, understand?" Leyla nodded. Content that her instructions were going to be obeyed, Ziva felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. She watched Leyla comfort her daughter, and after a moment, the young mother looked up to meet her gaze.

"Thank you, Ziva," she whispered. Barely audible, Ziva could hear the heartfelt meaning of the words. "Thank you." Ziva responded with a nod of her head when someone rapped against the closed door of the bedroom. Both women tensed, but Ziva relaxed when she heard the familiar voice of her partner.

"Ziva, you okay in there?" Tony asked. "And the girls?"

"We are fine, Tony," Ziva called back. "I will be out in a moment." She turned back to Leyla. "I need to go secure the scene. You should both try to get some rest. Use the bed. There are extra blankets on the top shelf of the closet. Will you be all right if I leave Tony posted outside the room?" Leyla nodded, her eyes wide. Ziva moved to leave, but turned back at the last moment. "And if you could do me a favor?" When Leyla nodded again, Ziva waved towards the pictures of her and Gibbs around the room, as well as the items that were too feminine to be Gibbs'. "Do not let him in the room if you can at all help it." This earned a smile from the tense mother.

"Of course," Leyla responded in understanding. "It is the least I can do."

"Toda," Ziva replied. She opened the door and smoothly slipping from the room. Tony was anxiously waiting for her.

"Hey," he said softly, "they okay?"

"Yes," Ziva told him. "They are a little shaken, and more than a little frightened. But Amira is young, and Leyla is strong. They will recover."

"And you? You okay?" Ziva eyed him, a small smile tickling her lips. Tony quickly tried to backtrack. "I only ask because you guys lit outta there pretty quick you know. Someone who didn't know you as well as I do would think you were on the run from something." Ziva bit back a sharp retort, recognizing his concern for what it was.

"I am fine, Tony," she said. She might feel a painful bruise on her ribs once the adrenaline faded, she acknowledged silently, but Tony did not need to know that.

"Well, that's good," he said loudly. "It was little hard watching your back with my hands cuffed behind me."

"Oh yes, sorry about that," she said, leaning against the wall. She smirked. "But I was not without backup."

"You mean The Hulk back there?" Ziva nodded.

"Did he take care of the intruders in the basement?"

"Yeah. Trussed 'em up all nice and neat for us." Tony snorted ungraciously. "Last I saw he was lugging them up to join their friends in the living room. The man's a freaking machine."

"The man also saved our lives," Ziva brought to his attention. "We are lucky he recognized us."

"You mean he recognized _you_," Tony specified. "What's up with that anyway? The case didn't take that long." A familiar shit-eating grin spread across his lips as he waggled his eyebrows at her. "You two get a little busy with the jiggy after he was discharged?" Ziva pegged him with a hard stare.

"I do not know what a jiggy is, but knowing how your mind works, my answer is _no_." Ziva pushed away from the wall. "Stay on guard up here. I am going to go clear the scene with Werth. Leyla is no longer armed, but she has asked that you remain in the hallway. She is trying to get Amira to sleep."

"All right," Tony responded. "Someone needs to update Gibbs."

"I will do it," she called over her shoulder, descending down the stairs. Part of her realized that as the newest Probie on the team, it was not her place to delegate tasks as she was doing now, but the adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving her exhausted and on edge. She was bordering on autopilot. Thankfully, Tony had the good sense to not call her out on it.

She entered the living room to find Damon setting the last of his colleagues on the floor next to the others. Two seemed to be in the process of regaining consciousness, but they had been effectively hogtied, so their movements were limited. Taking in the scene before her, Ziva wondered if they had been planning to do the same to her and Tony, had Damon not recognized them in time. Taking a deep breath, she banished the all-too-vivid memories of the last time she had been bound in such a way, instead focusing on Werth as he noticed her presence.

"I already frisked them," he informed her. "Want me to stand guard so you can clear the house and secure the perimeter?" Ziva nodded, tightening her grip on the gun still in her hand.

"I will be back in a few moments. Tony is upstairs."

"I'll keep an ear out for him. There shouldn't be anyone else, but you can never be too careful." Ziva nodded in acknowledgment, leaving him to start sweeping the house. After clearing the house she moved out to the yard, quietly making sure that no intruders were lying in wait among the bushes. She could see some of the neighbor's lights turn on; she wondered if they even bothered to call the cops anymore when they heard gunshots coming from Gibbs' house.

Ziva was just crossing the deck to go back inside when her cell phone began to vibrate in her pocket. Without bothering to look at the display, she flipped it open.

"Ziva—"

"Situation is under control, Gibbs," she said. "The targets are secure, intruders neutralized."

"Neutralized how?"

"Alive, but restrained. They sustained some physical damage."

"How many?"

"Five entered, four apprehended."

"What happened to the fifth?" His confusion was audible, even over the raspy cell line. Ziva sighed.

"He recognized us, and realized the error of his ways." Silence reigned for a moment as Gibbs considered her words.

"You're serious."

"As a gas attack."

"It's heart attack, Ziver. And what the hell do you mean this guy recognized you?"

"He's come into contact with us before. A case a couple of years ago."

"Who the hell is this guy?"

"Damon Werth." A moment of silence followed.

"Corporal Damon Werth?" Gibbs paused. "Well, he fits the profile; dishonorably discharged, aggressive. Ziva…"

"Gibbs, if you are about to tell me to cuff him until you get here, do not bother. I will not."

"And why is that?"

"Because he took out the rest of his team when we told him of the situation. He trusted us, and I will give him the same respect." Ziva paused. "And he is a friend," she added. Over the rasp of the cell reception, she could hear Gibbs sigh.

"You and Tony okay?" he said finally.

"Tony's oversized ego took a hit, but he will recover," she responded lightly.

"And you?" he asked, recognizing the deflection when he heard it. Ziva sighed.

"I took a few blows," she admitted, her voice bitter. "But I am fine."

"All right," Gibbs accepted, knowing better than to contradict her over the phone. She knew from his tone that they would be continuing this line of questioning later. "Stay there. I'm on the way with back up."

"We are not going anywhere," Ziva responded.

"Ziva…" Gibbs' voice was quiet.

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

The soft words made Ziva smile.

"I will," she returned, her tone warm and gentle. She snapped the phone closed, tucking it carefully into her pocket. Looking out over the familiar yard one last time, Ziva finally turned and went back into the house to wait for her lover.

* * *

Gibbs escorted the handcuffed Bell to the grey sedan, being none too gentle as he shoved the CEO into the backseat. He turned to where Ziva was standing in the middle of the road.

"You comin'? he asked.

"I think I will return to your house, make sure Leyla and Amira are okay," she said. "I will also get started on cleaning it up a little. There was a lot of broken glass when we left it, and I do not want Amira to hurt herself." Gibbs nodded in understanding.

"You okay to go alone?" Before Ziva had a chance to respond, a deep voice from behind her spoke up.

"I'll go with her," Damon volunteered. Ziva turned to look at him, finding him standing behind her, his large frame silhouetted by the headlights of Bell's car. "Besides, I made the mess. I should be the one to clean it up." She heard the grin in his voice, and could not help but give one of her own. She looked back at Gibbs in time to see him nod in approval.

"Take Bell's car. Driver left the keys in the ignition." Ziva nodded her acceptance as Gibbs turned to get into the driver's seat. He paused once he opened the door, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow in her direction. A wink assured him that he would get the unadulterated version of events as soon as they were alone, and that she was comfortable in Werth's presence. Another short nod, and then he was in the car, speeding off towards the Navy Yard.

She turned and walked towards where Damon was waiting against the hood of Bell's car. The driver had been taken by Tony to the Navy Yard for a brief questioning, and had left the keys in the ignition. While her concern for the state of Gibbs' house and its occupants was genuine, the knowledge that Leyla and Amira were sleeping in the guest bedroom under the careful watch of two NCIS agents removed the urgency from Ziva's stride. She leaned next to Damon against the warm hood of the car, crossing her arms over chest, mirroring his posture.

"Looking good, Ziva," her companion said amiably.

"As are you," she responded. She smirked. "Nice haircut." He chuckled, running a hand over his long hair.

"Yeah," he replied. "Not exactly within regs, is it?" Silence fell between them. "It's been a long time," he said finally.

"It has."

"I tried to call you, over a year ago. Your number had been disconnected." His tone was inscrutable, but his next words were not. "I was worried."

"I am sorry, Damon," Ziva said. "I was sent back to Israel by the new Director. I had less than twenty four hours to leave the country. I did not have time—"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Ziva." Damon smirked. "You forget I was a Marine. I know what it's like to get orders." He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Besides, I managed to track you down about six months ago." It took Ziva a moment to do the math, but then realization hit her like a ton of bricks. That was… She turned to face him, her arms falling to her sides instinctively.

"How?" Her voice was dark, and Damon rose from his position in reaction, sensing the shift in atmosphere. He raised his hands in his defense.

"Hey, it's not like I was stalking you, Ziva," he said.

"That does not answer my question."

"Honestly? It wasn't even something I did. I got a call from a buddy of mine, out of Aqaba. He mentioned someone he had gotten in contact with, and the way he described her, it reminded me of you. A few days later, he called again, told me he had gotten her name. Said he heard one of her men call her Ziva." He crossed his arms again. "That's all that happened. I knew better than to push any deeper. He told me enough to know that you were into something sensitive. Figured you wouldn't appreciate a civilian getting caught up in your business." Ziva relaxed slightly.

"And your buddy. What is his name?"

"Cryer. Daniel Cryer." Ziva froze, her fists constricting tightly. The movement was not missed by Damon. "You know him." Ziva nodded once.

"I knew him as Daniel Chalev." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "Damon, your friend… he is dead." She held her breath, waiting for his reaction. He knew that Chalev--Cryer-- had been with her, and it would not be difficult to make the leap between her presence and Cryer's death. However, she was surprised a moment later when he simply gave a heavy sigh.

"Yeah," he said. Her stunned expression spurred him to elaborate. "I knew he was involved in shady stuff, and when he didn't contact me again… It wasn't too difficult to imagine what happened." He regarded her with a long look. "Were you there?"

"Yes," she replied, after only the slightest of hesitation.

"I'm sure he appreciated that." At first Ziva thought he was being sarcastic, but she quickly realized he wasn't. He leaned back against the car, and Ziva was struck by how closely Damon resembled Gibbs.

"You are not going to ask if I killed him?"

"No." He looked at her. "I don't think you did. And if I'm wrong, then he probably did something to deserve it. I'm not about to judge."

With that, Damon turned and crossed to the driver's side door. He opened the door, but paused before getting in.

"You ready?" he asked. Ziva looked at him for a moment, then moved to the opposite side of the car. When they were both in the car, Damon looked at Ziva before starting the car. She returned the gaze, guardedly at first, but soon a smirk curled her lips and her eyebrow arched skeptically.

"You are an idiot, you know that?" Damon grinned unabashedly.

"Yeah, but I'm a cute idiot." At that, Ziva found herself laughing. The tense moment was broken, and she was quick with a returning quip.

"Sorry, Damon, but that only flies with the buzzcut."

A chuckle was her only response, and most of the ride back to Gibbs' house was quiet. It was Damon who finally spoke up about halfway through the trip.

"I was thinking of staying here in DC for a while anyway," the muscular man said as he guided the car along the darkened road. "Think you might want start sparring again?" His question was innocent enough, but Ziva surprised herself when she hesitated. "Come on," he prodded. "I saw Bronson land a couple on you… looks like you could use the practice."

"I am not sure that is a good idea," she said, resolutely staring out the windshield.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his grin wide and unassuming. It reminded Ziva of one of Tony's grins when he was describing his latest movie craze. "You love to spar. And hell, you're still the only one who's been able to give me a run for my money, Bell's men included." When Ziva didn't responded, he turned serious. He turned his attention back to the road as he silently considered the shift in her mood. "Something happened after you left Aqaba."

"What makes you say that?" she said, dodging the question.

"Well, Cryer never made it to where he was headed, for one thing. And I'm willing to bet that if you did manage to get to where you needed to be, it didn't play out the way you planned. Cryer wasn't supposed to die, I know that much from your expression when you told me he bought it. That means the op went bad before you even made it to the first rendezvous point." He glanced at her. "How am I doing so far?"

"Not bad," she conceded grudgingly.

"Most special ops would probably call off the mission, or at least call for backup. But I also know that Mossad operates on a whole other level from most other ops teams, which means at that point you kept going, no matter what the situation." He paused. "That shit tends to end badly for everyone involved." He fell silent, and Ziva did not need to say anything to know that he knew his assessment was dead-on. The car remained quiet for several long moments. Finally, Ziva spoke up in a soft voice.

"Do you think killers are born, Damon?"

He glanced at her, briefly appraising her. He noticed her expression was carefully schooled, but her eyes were undeniably troubled. He took a moment to choose the right words, knowing that his next words would carry a heavy weight.

"Nah," he said finally. She glanced at him. "The only born killers are psychos and serial killers." She arched an eyebrow at him, and he could see her skepticism. "People like you and me, Ziva," he continued, "we aren't _killers_." At this, her skepticism turned to disbelief. "We kill, yeah, and yeah, we're better at it than others. But we don't do it for the sake of killing. We serve a purpose. We do it so others don't have to."

"That seems a feeble excuse," Ziva remarked.

"It's not an excuse." Werth paused. "Everyone in this world has a way, Ziva. Some people heal, and become doctors. Others lead, and become politicians. But people like us, Ziva, we have two possible options. We can become killers, if we let ourselves. We can live for the kill, for the feeling of triumph when we take another life. Or we can become warriors. We can choose to fight for the greater good, to fight for the hope that we can make the world just that much safer. It's up to us to choose which way we want to follow. But you have to choose one way or the other, because if you don't, you lose yourself." He glanced at her once more. "Which one are you going to be, Ziva? Which way do you choose?"

Ziva did not respond immediately. She mulled the words over in her head, processing them over and over again. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

"I do not want to be a killer."

Damon bit back a smile. "I didn't think you would," he confessed. He met her gaze, his eyes flicking back to the road every so often. "If you were a killer, you'd have put a bullet in my head both times I charged you at the hospital." His smile faded until his expression was once again serious. "But you can't stop fighting Ziva. The day you stop fighting is the day you give up the core of who you are. And the moment that happens, you might as well ask death to take you."

This time, Ziva didn't respond, instead taking his words to heart. There was a wisdom in his words that was in conflict with his brusque voice and solid frame, but Ziva knew him well enough to know that he meant what he said. But did they hold true for her? She had neglected her training since her time in Somalia, not wanting to return to the assassin mindset she had reverted to after she had split from the team, and it obviously showed. Not only had she been unprepared for the insertion team, she had lost her weapon and had taken hits she normally would have been able to avoid. And at the same time, she had hesitated in the basement.

Ziva had had a chance to permanently neutralize the threat against Amira, when she had been poised to snap the man's neck. But she had second-guessed herself, and it had been enough for him to get the upper-hand. She had been lucky to have Damon at her back, but what happened the next time she doubted herself? The next time she may not be so lucky. Hesitation could get her killed, or worse, endanger the rest of the team.

Damon was right. If she remained in limbo, if she remained unable to utilize her skills, as violent as they were, she would be of no use to the team or to herself. But that didn't mean she was defined by her prowess with a knife or a gun. Not if she didn't let it. She wasn't just a crazy ninja chick anymore. To Gibbs, she was a lover and confidante, a source of comfort and familiarity he couldn't share with anyone else. To Tony she was a partner, loyal and ever-vigilant, always willing to come to his aid when needed. To McGee she was a staunch supporter, ready to boost his confidence, or side with him during a friendly dispute with Tony. And to Abby, she was a friend—as the only two women on the team, they shared a bond that the rest simply couldn't comprehend, and though they had first gotten off to a rocky start, they had earned each other's trust and respect.

It was these qualities that defined who she was as person. It was by these relationships she would be remembered by, she realized. Tony, McGee, and Gibbs had not risked their lives to avenge the death of a useful warrior. They had gone to avenge the death of a teammate, friend, and loved one. The startling revelation warmed her, and her vision clouded with tears.

A warm hand on hers made her blink, causing the tears to escape down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the heel of her free hand, allowing her contact with Damon's rough hand continue unbroken. She turned her hand over so that her palm met his, and her fingers wrapped gratefully around his hand. He returned the gesture with a gentle squeeze, accompanied by a gaze of understanding and support. It occurred to Ziva that even though she had not said a word, he seemed to recognize that she had discovered what he had recognized immediately. She briefly wondered if he had once had the same internal debate himself.

The rest of the way to Gibbs' house was void of sound, but the silence was amiable. Ziva did not thank Damon for the wisdom he had imparted, as she realized he did not expect, want, or need it. His words had been from one friend to another… one _warrior_ to another.

Because she was not a killer.


	28. Honor, Courage, Commitment

Gibbs sipped his coffee, enjoying the blessed quiet of the squad bay. Tony was conspicuously absent, but Gibbs was not about to take the resulting silence for granted. McGee and Ziva were working at their respective desks, giving the Marine a chance to glance surreptitiously in Ziva's direction. His newest agent had been more reserved than usual the past few days, to the point that Gibbs suspected something was bothering her. He knew it wasn't the ever-circling Kai—when Vance had been briefing the team on the North Korean, Gibbs had seen the slightest gleam of excitement in the young woman's eye. Even after everything that she had weathered the past few months, she was thrilled at the prospect of coming into contact with the notorious assassin. But this quiet demeanor she was exuding now, this was something Gibbs couldn't quite put his finger on.

He waited until lunch came around making his move. Dinozzo, who had since returned, was the first to book, followed closely by McGee, who was no doubt en route to rendezvous with his new sweetheart. Gibbs waited until Ziva left a few minutes later, her features pensive as she made her way to the elevator. Gibbs followed at the last minute, sidling into the car as the doors closed. He said nothing as the elevator began to rumble, then flipped the emergency switch.

He still said nothing, sipping his coffee as he waited for Ziva to speak first. It was several long moments before Gibbs realized he was not going to oblige him. It was a trait that had developed after her return from Somalia—while she often shared her thoughts with him when e asked, but rarely offered them unsolicited.

"What's on your mind?" he asked bluntly. Ziva looked at him, and Gibbs noticed her eyes seemed… sad. She looked away, glancing at her hands as they twisted in front of her. She took a soft breath before answering.

"What else can I do?"

Her question took Gibbs by surprise.

"What?"

"I do not know what else I can do." Her voice was worried, confused. "I have already applied for Special Agent status. I am studying to take the citizenship test. I am doing everything I can to ensure I can never return to Mossad. What else do I have to do to convince Tony that I am no longer an assassin?"

Gibbs froze. Shock filled him, only to be quickly burned away by anger. Dinozzo was notorious for pushing people's buttons, and Gibbs wouldn't deny that it often got confessions out of suspects. But this… this was out of line. Gibbs had noticed that the senior field agent had been working twice as hard to get under Ziva's skin, especially once she no longer voiced her annoyance for her "Probie" status. Gibbs knew that her long fuse for Tony's antics was largely a result of her enjoyment of their banter. She was still getting used to being back at NCIS, and she was still too grateful to be alive to rise to Tony's baiting.

But for some reason it had spurred Tony to go to greater lengths to get a rise out of her. But he had gone too far this time.

"But maybe he is right," Ziva continued. "A zebra cannot lose its stripes simply because it calls itself a horse, yes? Just as I cannot change who I am. I have been lucky so far; I have not had to use force since returning to NCIS. But I will have to do so eventually. It is part of the job." She paused briefly, but not long enough for Gibbs to speak up. "Tony has said I am like Kai—beautiful, deadly… heartless. Every inch the ruthless assassin. I cannot deny the truth of his words, Gibbs, but… It confuses me." She looked at him, her eyes bewildered. "Why would he risk his life to save me in Africa if he was afraid I would kill him at a moment's notice like Kai would?"

Gibbs had no immediate answer. Her questions were good ones, and even though he knew Tony didn't think that, Gibbs wanted to throttle Tony for causing Ziva's already shaky confidence to waver. In Gibbs' silence, Ziva's mind continued to work, analyzing Tony's words again and again. Finally, her eyes widened slightly as she came to a realization.

"It was not a rescue mission," she whispered. Gibbs glanced at her as she continued. "Everyone thought I was dead. You went to Somalia to kill Saleem, not to rescue me. I was not supposed to live through it, and I was not supposed to come back to NCIS." She bowed her head. "It explains why he was so mocking of my desire to become a citizen, an agent. He does not think it will mean anything."

"Stop." Gibbs said, cutting her off with a firm voice. She looked up at him, surprised. "Dinozzo's an idiot. You've known that for years, and you've never let him get to you like this."

"But he usually loses interest," she argued. "He beats it to death for a few days, but then he moves on. But this…" She shook her head. "The last time he was this persistent, he was right in being so. He was right about Michael. And as much as you and I do not want to admit it, Tony may be right this time as well. I _am_ like Kai."

Gibbs remained silent, focusing entirely on keeping his anger tempered. Tony had become increasingly annoying the past few months, but Gibbs had let it slide. But Tony knew better than most that Ziva was not a cold blooded killer. The senior field agent had seen glimpses of how emotional she could be; he had seen how devastated she was after Rivkin died, though it was likely that Tony had been too wrapped up in his own personal chaos to see how conflicted she had been.

Gibbs' mind raced to find some way to gently contradict her, to reassure, but was unable to. She wouldn't believe him at this point anyway, he knew. It would be hours, possibly days, before she would emerge from the cloud of doubt enough for him to get through to her. It had happened multiple times since her return to America, and Gibbs was more than familiar with these episodes. So he remained silent, knowing she would not appreciate any platitudes he could offer.

She reached out and hit the emergency switch once more, sending the elevator back into motion.

"Thank you for listening," she said dully, not meeting his gaze. She said nothing else as the car descended. When the doors finally opened up on the ground floor, Ziva left Gibbs standing alone in the elevator, coffee in hand. He let her go, knowing they both needed time to recover—she from her doubt, and he from his overwhelming urge to kill his senior field agent.

Later that night, Gibbs sent Ziva home early. She was still so shaken by her earlier revelation that she didn't protest his order, instead giving a slight nod before gathering her things. A pointed look at McGee and a tilt of the head sent the younger agent after her as she made her way towards the elevator. Tony moved to leave as well, but was halted by the sound of Gibbs' voice.

"Not you," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "You have reports to finish."

"So do they, Boss," Tony returned.

"Yup. You're doing those too."

"But Boss, that's a Probie's job! Why—"

"Sit down and shut up, Dinozzo," came the unyielding reply, "or you'll be combing through cold cases for the next three months."

Cowed, Tony sat and silently began to work. Though he was bewildered by the sudden harshness of Gibbs' voice, he knew better than to push the issue. Gibbs remained at his own desk for another half hour before finally standing and grabbing his coffee.

"All three on my desk by midnight," he threw over his shoulder as he marched briskly past his senior field agent. The deadline was more of a suggestion—he had no intention of being around to enforce it, and Dinozzo could spend all night in the squad room for all he cared. Without another word Gibbs entered the elevator, whose doors obediently opened as soon as he tapped the call button. He was out of sight before Dinozzo even had a chance to protest his sudden plight.

******

Ziva was already at the house by the time Gibbs made it home. He found her curled up in their bedroom, still in her work clothes and boots, staring out the window. Her arms were crossed in front of her defensively, and Gibbs' eyes were drawn to the bare skin that was left uncovered over the collar of her shirt, void of its usual golden pendant. Its absence made her seem more vulnerable—he knew that had it not been missing, she would now be running her slender fingers over its familiar shape, as she usually did when she was upset.

A few soft words told him she needed some time to herself, and though it pained him to do so, Gibbs honored her request. He left Ziva to her thoughts and disappeared to the familiar shadows of his basement. Its empty space was still a little unnerving, and he knew that he needed to start a new project. Gibbs' thoughts began to wander into the comforting realm of carpentry. He would not build another boat, he decided, given the fate of the last one. Calloused hands plucked a chunk of scrap wood from the corner and a sharp tool from the workbench as he perched on a sawhorse, and they expertly began to work as he let his thoughts wander.

Perhaps he'd make something else for Amira. What does she need? A bed frame, maybe, large enough for her to grow into over the years. Or a chair, with her name carved into the back of it. His hands continued to work mindlessly at the wood, chiseling pieces away until a rough shape began to emerge. Maybe a matching chair for Leyla too. Leyla would appreciate a wooden table for the beach house too—on his last visit she had jokingly complained about the battered old Formica table Franks currently had. He could also try his hand at building a chest for the young mother, something to store memories in as she built a life in America.

He glanced at the wood in his hands, examining the shape that was taking form. The top ridge of the chipped wood was reminiscent of a horse's mane blowing in the wind, and the shadows at the bottom gave him the image of slender legs thundering along an open plain. He grinned—maybe Amira would enjoy a rocking horse.

He returned his attention to the wood itself, working to bring the horse he had spotted into sharper focus. He was just starting on the flowing tail when the sound of heavy footsteps in the house above him. It was not Ziva—Gibbs never heard her until she descended the stairs to the basement, if then. He felt a fleeting concern for how Ziva would react to an uninvited presence in the house, but he dismissed it quickly. She had progressed enough to not panic at the sound of unfamiliar footsteps. And this was no sneaking intruder—the heavy steps moved directly from the front door to the basement filling the open door with the familiar silhouette of one Anthony Dinozzo.

Without waiting for an invitation, Tony stomped down the creaky wooden steps. Gibbs spoke first, letting his temporarily forgotten ire rise to the surface once more.

"There a reason you're stomping around my house in the middle of the night, Dinozzo?"

"Damn right there's a reason," the senior field agent replied angrily. "I wanna know why I had to spend four extra hours at the Navy Yard while two Probies were sent home _early_." Tony's expression was fiery, a far cry from the happy-go-lucky persona he liked to exude in the office. "What did I do to piss you off?"

"Did you tell Ziva she was like Kai?"

Tony froze, the question taking him by surprise.

"What?"

"Have you been getting on her case about her citizenship exam?" Gibbs voice was careful to mask his emotions, but Tony had no such qualms. He scoffed.

"She told you about that?" He responded, his lips curling into a mirthless smile. "Come on, that can't seriously be—"

"Did you, or did you not?" All false pleasantry disappeared from Gibbs' demeanor, his voice hardening. Tony's posture responded in kind, his eyes flashing as he straightened to his full height.

"Yeah, I did," he fired back.

"Why in the hell—"

"Because it's true!" Tony said, his voice angry. "Because no amount of knowledge of the Constitution, or the Declaration of Independence, or the freaking Bill of Rights is going to change who she is!"

"And just who is she, Dinozzo?"Gibbs shot back. "Or do you even know anymore?"

"She's Mossad! She's never going to be an American, no matter what it says on paper. She will always be Mossad, Metsada, Kidon. She'll always think like an assassin—it's what she was raised to do! A leopard can't change its spots, Gibbs, you know that better than anyone. You might not be in the Corps anymore, but you're still a Marine. You'll always be a Marine, and she'll always be an assassin, plain and simple."

"Not plain and simple." Gibbs' voice was dangerously low. "I'm a Marine because I choose to be. She is doing her damnedest to become more than what Eli David trained her to be. The last thing she needs is to be catching flak from her partner!"

"She deserves to have someone tell it like it is," Tony argued. "If I don't, who will? Everyone else is treating her with kid gloves—"

"Kid gloves? She gets treated like the Probie she is, and she's doing a better job of it than you did when you were in her shoes. And you wanna know why?!" Gibbs' voice rose. "Because of her training!" Tony remained silent. "The same damn training you say she can't rise above is part of the reason she's a damn good investigator!"

"All I know is that the last time a Mossad officer claimed to be something other than Mossad, I ended up with a broken arm and a fucked up shoulder!"

"No!" Gibbs' thundered, his voice echoing in the empty basement. He stepped closer to the younger man, his posture menacing, whose words had halted in shock. "You don't get to say anything about Rivkin. You can lie to yourself, to the Director, to Ziva. But you can't lie to me." Tony's brow furrowed in confusion. "You got lucky with Rivkin. You got damn lucky. But I know that you didn't go over to Ziva's apartment that night to have her back. You didn't invade her privacy to _have her back_."

"Boss—"

"Shut up." Gibbs left no room for argument. "You stuck your nose where it didn't belong, for the wrong reasons. You didn't suspect Rivkin of espionage when you went digging through her desk and found that picture. Hell, you didn't even know his name. It wasn't until she started to spend more time with him outside of work that you started looking for spooks. And you got lucky when you actually found something." Cool blue eyes bored into angry green ones. "What would you have done if you hadn't found something? Would you have accused him anyway? Or maybe pull a scene out of your goddamn movies, where the idiot steals the girl away from someone who had finally made her happy?" Gibbs paused, scrutinizing the speechless agent.

"You didn't even stop to think that if she hadn't been so busy trying to dodge you, she would have found out about Rivkin on her own? You should have given her some credit. Especially after what happened with Abby."

"Abby?"

"A hitman was able to get close to her because a stalker distracted her from the real threat." Gibbs paused, a wry smile tickling his lips. "You're Ziva's stalker," he observed astutely. "You're too damn self-righteous to realize it."

"It wasn't like that," Tony sputtered, racing to recover.

"It wasn't? You telling me you _weren't_ jealous that Rivkin had the guts to go after her when you didn't?" Gibbs forced himself to slow down, realizing that he was coming dangerously close to revealing their secret. He wanted nothing more than to tell Dinozzo just how badly he had screwed up—that Rivkin had just been a front, that Ziva had had no lasting interest in the Israeli, and that if Tony had not gone to confront her, if he had not shot Rivkin, Ziva never would have gotten captured in Somalia. But he couldn't. Even now, he had to continue the charade.

"And then you wallow in self-pity for months before finally growing a set and deciding you wanted vengeance for her death. And when it turns out she's alive, you do nothing but poke and jab at everything she does, despite the fact she's doing three times the work you are." Gibbs' voice was still a menacing growl, but he was losing his steam, the majority of his anger well-spent. "Do you honestly think she's suddenly going to snap and turn on you?"

"No," Tony conceded. "Not really."

"Then why?" his tone was now a mix of frustration and perplexion. "Why brush her off as a lost cause? God knows why, but she actually listens to you when you open your mouth. And each time you ride her for studying for her test, she doubts herself more. Every time you remind her she's an assassin, she sinks deeper into her fear that she'll never be free of her father." At this, Tony's glare returned.

"Maybe she won't," the younger man declared loudly, anger oozing from him. "Maybe she just can't change. She's never gonna be an American, boss. On paper, maybe, but her heart's always gonna be with Israel." Gibbs' own anger returned once more. His voice lowered as he stepped closer.

"You think she's gonna go back?" he growled. "After everything that's happened, do you honestly think she'll get to just take a vacation and go back to Israel for a visit? She turned her back on Israel, Mossad, and her father when she refused to go back with Ben-Gidon. She chose to leave everything behind because she remembered who she could trust—us. She chose to stay here, risking the full might of Mossad, because she believes in what _we_ taught her. And you're doing you best to convince her that she'll never measure up. That she'll always be a pariah." The anger didn't fade, and it churned painfully in Gibbs' gut.

"Dammit Dinozzo!" he shouted, unable to keep his frustration in check. "She killed her brother to save me. She saved Ducky's life her first month here. She's saved your life. She saved Jenny's life twice, and probably would have saved it a third time if you had listened to her in LA." Gibbs couldn't help the dig, and was rewarded with a grimace from the other man. "She just spent four months being interrogated for information about NCIS, and I'm willing to bet she didn't tell them as much as she could have." He regarded Tony with a hard look. "And now she's given up what's left of her heritage. So tell me Dinozzo: what the hell have you done that makes you so much better than her?"

Silence fell as Gibbs finally felt the burning in his gut lessen slightly. It wasn't gone, not by a long shot, but he could finally breathe again. Neither man moved, but Gibbs scrutinized Dinozzo with keen eyes. The younger man had paled, his eyes wide at Gibbs' onslaught. After several long moments, he finally spoke.

"I rescued her," Tony whispered, as though more in self-assurance than in argument.

"Aw, hell, Dinozzo, Gibbs scoffed, finally pulling away. "You didn't rescue her. None of us _rescued _her. We went to Somalia for one reason—we went there to take out Saleem. She saved herself. She survived, no thanks to us. You didn't leave her behind, but you didn't _rescue _her." The truth of his words hit both men simultaneously. Gibbs had never given the semantics of that day a second thought, but it now seemed the most important distinction to make. And now Tony was visibly shaken. When he finally spoke, the senior field agent's voice was soft and wary.

"She shouldn't be an agent, boss."

"You don't get to make that call, Dinozzo." Gibbs' voice had softened.

"It's too dangerous," Tony elaborated. Gibbs looked at him, and was surprised to see tears sparkling in the younger man's eyes. "We just got her back. She shouldn't be throwing herself back into harm's way again. She should be holed up in a room somewhere, bawling her eyes out. That's what anyone else would be doing right now."

"When have I ever been like anyone else?"

The soft voice cut through the air like ice. Green eyes and blue both shot to the basement door, where Ziva's slender form entered and began to descend the stair. Gibbs was happy to see she was still in her work clothes, giving no indication she had been upstairs the entire time.

"And I have spent the past summer doing nothing but sitting 'holed up in a room somewhere'. I have absolutely no desire to spend any more time doing so." In the shadows her eyes flashed dangerously, but Tony did not seem to see.

"Ziva—"

"Shut up, Tony." The command came harsh and unyielding through the crisp air of the basement. "You do not get to say anything." She came to a stop on the bottom landing and looked at him, her gaze hurt and distrustful. "I cannot believe you." Her voice was little more than a furious whisper. "You kill Michael, and then you do everything you can to make sure you are not the one who paid for it." Her expression hardened. "I paid for you, Tony."

"Ziva…"

"Shut up," she repeated. "And what I realize now, is that I paid because Gibbs chose you. I stayed behind in Israel because Gibbs did not fight for me. I stayed so that he would not have to choose between us, but he did choose you, because he did nothing to try to convince me to come back." She took a few steps forward. "And those months I had nothing to do but think, I convinced myself that he had done the right thing. My loyalty had wavered, and therefore I did not deserve to be a part of the team." Gibbs heard her voice harden. "And then I come back, and now I can see the truth. You are a self-centered, immature idiot who cares for no one but himself." Her words were scathing, their intensity growing with each additional accusation. "You stood there in the men's room and let me make a fool of myself that day. Letting me go on and on about how you have my back. You do not have my back, Tony." She shook her head. "You still do not. You have not had my back since you returned from being an Agent Afloat."

The blunt honesty of her words struck a chord in Gibbs, and looking back at the past year, he realized she was right.

"As soon as you suspected I had met someone, someone who might mean more than a weekend fling, you began to doubt me. Just as you are doubting me now. You do not trust me." Tony opened up his mouth to speak, but slender hand being raised cut him off. "Luckily for me, it is not your trust I need." She squared her shoulders. "I must first learn how to trust myself," she declared. Pride swelled within Gibbs as he realized she had finally discovered what he had been trying to tell her for weeks, ever since she told him about what happened prior to being captured by Saleem. "If I cannot trust myself, how can I trust others to?"

"Ziva, I never meant to—"

"Do not insult my intelligence, Tony. I am damaged, not brain dead. I know you better than that. You try to convince others that you are a simple minded juvenile, but I know that everything you do, you do for a reason."

"Give me a chance—"

"You have had enough chances." Ziva's voice was low, calm. "I thought you had changed, when I saw you in front of me in that place…" She did not need to elaborate as to which place she was referring to. "But you have done everything you can to convince me otherwise since then." A small smile quirked at her lips. "You accuse me of being unable to change, but it is you who never will."

"Ziva…" Tony was at a loss for words now, and even Gibbs felt a pang of pity for him. Ziva's tone was not as sharp and biting as his own had been, but it made her words hit home all the more, cutting through the shreds of Dinozzo's defenses.

"But I will not let you take me down with you," she continued. "I will become a citizen, and I will become an agent, because I am not happy remaining as I was. I know who I want to be, and I will continue to strive for it, even if I do so for the rest of my life. I will not let you take that dream from me too."

Her brown eyes drifted to Gibbs, and he was suddenly glad that he had not inserted himself between his two agents like he had wanted to, as he was now able to look at her unhindered. Tony could not see his gaze, the intense observing gaze that looked her up and down before finally meeting her eyes once more. She meant what she said, he decided. Her posture was strong and defiant, proud in her decision to continue to work past her own inhibitions.

Gibbs nodded once, slowly, his eyes crinkling in an almost-smile. He would be there to help her, when she needed it. He would catch her when she foundered, and right her when she stumbled. Because no one was perfect, and she would most likely have more doubts in the future, especially when she began having to use physical force on the job. Memories will most likely haunt for years to come, and her accomplishments as part of Komemiute would follow her for the rest of her life. But if she were ready and willing to work past it, then he would be right there with her.

"Go home, Tony," she said after several long moments. "You have nothing to accomplish here." She paused. "If my presence at NCIS continues to bother you, I will ask McGee if he will be my partner. I am sure he would not mind having an assassin working with him."

"What, you mean you won't have Gibbs choose to have one of us leave the team?" Tony scoffed, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. Ziva took it in stride.

"I made that mistake once," she replied calmly. "I will not make it a second time." She looked at him. "I know where I belong now." Tony returned Ziva's gaze, remaining silent for a long moment as he regarded her still form. Finally he moved closer to her, as if to embrace her, but she smoothly moved back out of his reach. He sighed.

"Let me take you home, Ziva," he said, extending his hand. "It's late." The offer surprised Gibbs, and he had to refrain from declaring that she _was_ home. Luckily, Ziva was quicker on her feet.

"No," she replied firmly. Tony hesitated, then retracted his outstretched hand as it became clear she had no intention of taking it. "I have more to discuss with Gibbs." She paused. "Alone," she added, when Tony did not move to leave. Green eyes regarded her for a moment, then finally the senior field agent sighed, jamming his hands into his pockets.

Without another word he turned and moved past his partner, thumping unceremoniously up the stairs. Both Ziva and Gibbs remained motionless until they heard the front door close sharply and the familiar sound of an engine turning over. When the house around them was silent once more, Gibbs finally relaxed. He stepped closer to her, and without a word enfolded her in his arms, pulling him firmly against him. She welcomed the touch, wrapping her arms around his waist as her head rested against his shoulder. After a moment, he spoke.

"That hasn't happened in a while."

"What? Me fighting with Dinozzo?" she asked, not moving from her position against him.

"No. Him dropping by unannounced. We're gonna have to be more careful if he starts making a habit out of it." He felt Ziva smile against him.

"I have a long-term excuse," she replied. Gibbs' brow arched.

"Oh?"

"I have had a very difficult summer. I need a _lot_ of emotional guidance from my boss and mentor." She looked up at him. "It is common knowledge that your door is always open to those who need advice or reassurance."

"It's true," he responded. "Been a while since someone other than you took advantage of it."

"Are you trying to say I'm needy?" Gibbs could hear the humor in her voice, and he responded in kind.

"Naw… just that you're better to have around."

"Mhmm. Sure." She rested her head on his shoulder once more. "Keep talking, old man."

"Old man?" Gibbs couldn't hide his shock at the jibe—she hadn't made a dig at his age since… since Jenny died. He felt her chuckle against him. Well, two could play that game. His fingers brushed over her sides, careful to hit the spots most sensitive to his touch. She squirmed against him with a small cry, but he didn't release her. She glared at him.

"You would not," she declared, her tone threatening. He grinned.

"I wouldn't," Gibbs agreed. "But the old man certainly would." He saw Ziva's eyes widen as she spotted the familiar gleam in his eye. She tensed for split second—then bolted.

She sprinted up the stairs, Gibbs close on her heels. He let her stay just out of his reach, enjoying the chase as much as she was. He realized briefly that a year ago, she would have remained sullen for at least 24 hours after a confrontation like the one she had just had. These rapid mood swings had developed after she began to open up to him again, after Somalia. Gibbs knew it wasn't over—they would have to talk about what had happened, but it would wait. It _could_ wait.

She was home for good, and she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. They had time.

*******

For the remainder of the week, roles had reversed in the squad room. Tony was quiet and reserved while Ziva had regained much of her own confidence back, often joking with McGee when things were slow. Gibbs let it play out, despite the questioning looks Dinozzo sent his way, as if he were asking what the Marine would do after the argument the three of them had had in the basement. But Gibbs wasn't going to do anything. As far as he was concerned, Ziva had handled the situation better than he would have, and her resolution to the partners' dilemma was both logical and fair. So he stayed out of it, and Tony continued to mull things over in his head.

The case ended early Friday afternoon, and Gibbs let them all go home early, Tony included. The team had all dispersed to start their own weekends, eager to be away from the Navy Yard. Abby had swooped in and taken charge of McGee's plans for the weekend, taking it upon herself to ensure he did not spend his time thinking about the South African operative who had used him to get to Kai. Tony had remained uncharacteristically silent about his intentions for the weekend, but Gibbs had barely given the man a second thought as he had made his way home.

Friday evening was blessedly uneventful. At Ziva's suggestion they chose home-cooking over take out, and together made their preferred dish of macaroni and cheese. It had taken them several false starts before they fell into their usual rhythm, but once they did their movements were easy and natural. Gibbs enjoyed the familiarity, and allowed it to relax him. Neither spoke much during the preparation, which gave Gibbs a chance to contemplate what Ziva had said earlier in the week, both to him in the elevator and to Tony in the basement. His mind kept returning to the sight of Ziva sitting by the window that night, her fingers unnaturally still without the familiarity of her Star of David.

After they had eaten and cleared away the dishes, Gibbs led Ziva outside onto the back deck. He sat in one of the reclining deck chairs before pulling her down to rest against him. She resisted momentarily, but then relented as she lay against him on the padded chair. The air was cool, but his warmth kept the chill from her skin. They gazed up into the darkening autumn sky, watching the stars come out as the sun faded. They spoke gently to one another, discussing the events of the case, or Abby's latest antics. The conversation was easy, unhurried.

When the sun had fully set and the moon began to climb higher into the sky, Ziva was beginning to get drowsy. The comforting meal had relaxed her, she was happy to admit, and now half-laying on Gibbs, her limbs were little more than limp noodles. For the first time since Somalia, she was completely at ease. She felt safe, this close to Jethro, and her recently jumpy nerves were finally at rest. Which was why when something slipped over her head to rest gently around her neck, she did little more than blink in acknowledgement before looking up at her lover.

Her fingers instinctually came up to explore the foreign item, discovering a slip of metal whose edges were encased in smooth rubber. Her brow furrowed and she looked down at the tag, her fingers tracing the outline as she visually examined it. In the dark light she had to squint to read it, though she knew what it was going to read as soon as she recognized what it was.

_Gibbs, L.J._

_817657329_

_USMC_

_O-positive_

She turned to look at him to find his clear blue eyes twinkling back at her. Her own eyes darted back and forth between him and the dog tags as she searched for the appropriate words. She was confused, not sure what he was trying to say with his impromptu gift, but she was reluctant to simply return it to him.

"Gibbs…" Her voice was little more than whisper, and she wanted to kick herself for it, but Gibbs merely smiled softly.

"You don't have your Star anymore," he stated, his voice careful, soft. "You told me once that it was Tali's… I didn't think getting you another would mean as much as the first. But your neck looks bare without something there." He paused. "I would be honored if you wore this instead."

Ziva could feel the familiar sensation of being overwhelmed begin to creep up on her. She quickly spoke, knowing if she waited too long she would be unable to say anything coherent once the sensation fully claimed her.

"I cannot wear something like this—" Mid-sentence, Ziva realized that her words could easily be taken as offensive. She paused to find the proper words, cursing the fact that Gibbs did not understand Hebrew, which would have been an easier language to navigate. Before she had a chance to recover her bearing, Gibbs spoke up.

"Why not, Ziver?" His eyes captured hers, and she found she could not look away. "You wore Tali's necklace to remind you of what you were fighting for. You're fighting for something else now, so why not wear this to remind you?"

"It is too special," she said, her voice soft. "I cannot take this from you."

"You're not taking anything." Gibbs reached under his shirt and pulled out his own dog tag, identical to the one currently around her neck. "I have one of my own," he said. Ziva tried to protest once more, but he cut her off. "And don't try to say you're not worth it. You are worth it. I can't think of a single person who deserves to wear this more than you. Myself included."

"You are just saying that—"

"No, I'm not, Ziva. I was born American, just like all the other Marines I've met. But you've done more for this country than you will ever realize. And you _chose_ to become an American. Even though you have a family and a homeland of your own, you chose to stay here. With me. That takes a whole different breed of loyalty Ziva, and there is absolutely nothing more honorable than that. I've only known Marines to show that kind of loyalty, Ziver." He reached out to touch the tag in her fingers.

"You'll always be a fighter. You'll always be aggressive and deadly. But this tag can remind you of what you're fighting to become. It can remind you that you can use those traits to protect and defend, rather than kill. Cause that's what Marines do, Ziva."

Gibbs watched as the weight of his words settled on Ziva, her eyes frozen to his. They were wide and unassuming, even perhaps the slightest bit afraid. He saw her brow furrow as she searched for something to say, only to come up empty. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she fought to control the surge of emotions in her. She tried several times to speak, but each time thought better of it. Finally, she simply nodded, first hesitantly, then again with finality. The tiniest of smiles peeked out at him before she lay down next to him once more, her head coming to rest on his chest. He felt the warmth of her palm through the fabric of his shirt, and he welcomed the sensation.

After a moment he reached up and took the tag he had bestowed upon her in his fingers, bringing it into both his line of sight and hers. He tapped its edge with a calloused finger.

"And the name on this tag," he said, his voice a whisper, "my name… that's to remind you that I am here for you. That I will _always_ be here for you. No matter what." His free hand came up to gently stroke her hair when he felt her begin to tense next to him. "I promise."

Ziva's hand clenched into a fist, gripping his shirt tightly. Within moments Gibbs could feel his shirt dampen with her tears, the only indication that her emotions had finally overcome her defenses. His keen ears barely managed to hear her whispered words before her small frame shook as she began to cry silently.

"Thank you."


	29. Giving Thanks

A/N: You all knew this was coming! Sorry for slow updates... I hit two roadblocks with two other stories, but I'm working on them furiously. There might be an additional tag to Child's Play, but I get the feeling that many people will be writing about the exact same plot development, so maybe not. I haven't decided yet.

In any case, enjoy this one!

* * *

"Hey." Gibbs stuck his head into the bathroom, where Ziva was blowing her hair dry, clad in nothing but her dressing robe. Upon seeing him in the mirror, she turned the noisy appliance off. "We need to head out soon if we're going to be at Ducky's on time."

"I only need ten more minutes," she said.

"Okay." Gibbs knew better than to second-guess her. To date, she was the only woman he knew who accurately reported the time it took to get ready. Also, she was the only woman he knew who could apply make-up and get dressed in only ten minutes, and still look amazing.

Suddenly, Gibbs found himself on the receiving end of a scrutinizing look as Ziva scanned him head to toe. He allowed her to do so, ready to follow any corrective instructions she deigned to give out. He had learned to value Ziva's stylistic taste, as the Marine in him appreciated her eye for clean lines and careful presentation. After a moment, she nodded.

"You look good," she declared. She strolled over to him, a smirk tickling her lips. "But you could use some Chapstik." Her hands rested on his hips as she reached up and planted a firm kiss on his lips. He received it, a grin gracing his own features as she pulled flirtatiously away.

"Cherry?" he inquired, mimicking her playful demeanor.

"If you want it to be," she murmured seductively.

"Careful," he murmured back, "you keep using that voice we'll never make it to Ducky's." Ziva's brow arched suggestively.

"Perhaps that is the point," she responded. "After all, our own plans were not anything we could not simply postpone." She paused. "I am sorry for that, by the way."

"Sorry for what?"

"That you were temporarily relegated to 'neighbor' status," she replied. "I had to think quickly when Ducky first handed out the invitations."

"So that's why you mentioned your neighbors in the cornfield." His eyes crinkled at her. "You know, I wasn't aware you were so friendly with your neighbors. Anything I should be worried about?"

"Only if you are concerned that old Mrs. Cranshaw next door might steal me away from you," Ziva replied good-naturedly. Gibbs chuckled; Edna Cranshaw would sooner whack Ziva with her cane than steal her away. The crotchety old woman was openly hostile to the Israeli's presence in Gibbs' life, and only Ziva's amusement at the situation had kept Gibbs from putting the elderly woman in her place.

"Picture that," Gibbs drawled. With a smile, Ziva pecked him once more on the corner of his mouth before turning around to return to the bathroom. Gibbs reached out to swat her rear playfully. Ziva jumped with surprise before she shot him a mirthful glare over her shoulder.

"I'm gonna start heading over," he called after her. They had decided earlier that they would be taking separate cars over to Ducky's house.

"Do not forget you are supposed to bring the rolls," she reminded him as she picked up the hairdryer.

"Damn," Gibbs growled. Ziva poked her head out of the bathroom.

"You did forget," she accused, pursing her lips with a light _tsk_.

"Hey! I was trying to work a case!"

"Since when do you not multi-task?" Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "I happen to know for a fact that you are particularly gifted, at multi-tasking." She smirked. "It would be unfortunate to have you lose your _touch_."

"Oh that definitely hasn't happened," he assured her. He grinned. "I'll prove it to you later."

"I count it," she replied. "Now go. I need to finish getting ready, and you have to find dinner rolls."

Gibbs turned to obey, but then paused. He turned back, and padded softly into the bathroom once more. Before Ziva had a chance to say anything, he had wrapped one arm around her shoulders while the other snaked around her waist. Pulling her to his chest in a warm hug, he pressed a kiss to her temple. Her hands still laden with her brush and dryer, she nuzzled his cheek affectionately.

"Love you," he breathed.

"Mmmm," she sighed, resting her forehead against his jaw. "Love you more."

They stayed like that for a moment before Ziva spoke again. "You are going to make us both late," she murmured, but no made no effort to move. She was rewarded with another kiss to her cheek.

"I'm going," he yielded, releasing his grip on her. "See you soon."

"Remember, no sourdough!" he heard her call after him as he trotted down the stairs. The sound of the dryer coming back on preempted any response Gibbs might have called back. With a grin, he snatched the keys to the Challenger from their hook in the kitchen as he walked briskly to the garage. It wasn't until he had backed out of the drive and begun driving down the street that the thought struck him—where the hell was he going to get rolls at this time of night?

*****

Nearly forty-five minutes later, Ziva was at Ducky's and waiting with the rest of the team for Gibbs to arrive. Concern began to gnaw at her gut. She knew that Jethro would have sent a message to her cell if something had happened, but he had told her he would be there in time. On top of that, the mask of disappointment on Ducky's face threatened to break her heart. She had known for some time that the medical examiner had been feeling lonely after finally admitting his mother to a nursing home, and this dinner had come to mean a lot to him. And the disappointment at discovering that his oldest friend had not shown up was impossible for the man to hide. It took all of Ziva's self-control to keep herself from blurting out Gibbs' promise to be there—it would be too difficult to successfully explain away her knowledge of their supervisor's whereabouts.

Thankfully, Gibbs appeared in the nick of time, moments before the knife was about to slice into the flesh of the cooked turkey. She had fought to bite back a laugh when he dumped his assortment of random carbohydrates onto the table, resisting the urge to poke fun at the situation. A round of greetings followed, and then Gibbs quickly got to work on carving the turkey. Once enough had been cut for everyone to have a serving, and some extra slices for easy seconds, Gibbs took his seat at the head of the table. They made brief eye contact when their knees brushed as he sat, and Gibbs saw Ziva's small smile as she delicately laid her napkin over her lap.

They were just about to dig in when Abby's voice interrupted them.

"I propose a toast," the Goth declared. "Everyone has to tell everyone what they are thankful for."

"Abs," Gibbs said, his tone almost warningly. She looked at him with wide innocent eyes.

"What? It's a tradition we do every Thanksgiving in my family. It's a good tradition!" she assured the table.

"I think it is a good idea," Ziva said, earning glances of surprise from all around. Her eyebrows rose slightly in reaction as she scanned the table's occupants. "In fact," she continued, "I will even go first."

"Yay!" Abby exclaimed mutedly, but quickly fell silent as Ziva raised her glass with a slender hand. The Israeli hesitated when she felt the intense stares of the rest of the table, but Gibbs saw her take a steadying breath before speaking once more.

"I have a lot of things to be thankful for this year," she admitted, glancing around the table, "as much has happened in the past six months." Gibbs didn't miss Tony averting his gaze, no doubt as the senior agent remembered all of the less than pleasant events that had happened in the past year, some of which by his own hand. If Ziva saw her partner's reaction, though, she gave no indication of it. "But I think what I am most thankful for is the one thing that has been the source of all of the good things that have also happened in the past few months." Her gaze was soft and warm, the flickering candles reflected in her brown eyes.

"To family," she toasted, raising her glass a little higher.

Silence fell for a moment as her words settled on the team like a blanket. Gibbs was taken aback just as much as the others. Even after everything that had happened over the summer, after the hell she had managed to survive, she recognized the good that had happened as well. She didn't need to clarify that she was thankful for being rescued, for being allowed the chance to earn her spot on the team back—Gibbs knew of those already. But even after he and Dinozzo had wronged her last spring—Tony for killing Michael Rivkin, and Gibbs by not fighting for her on the tarmac in Tel Aviv—she still considered them, the team, her family.

A smile spread on Gibbs' features as he too raised his glass.

"To family," he echoed. Her eyes met his, her soft smile returned by one of his own.

"To family," Tony chimed in, leaning forward to touch his glass to theirs. The rest of the team followed suit, a chorus of tinkling glass filling the dining room as their glasses _chink_ed together in mutual toast. When the glasses returned to their places on the pristine tablecloth, one goblet remained in the air.

"We've lost a lot of people in the past few years," Gibbs said, his voice slow and deliberate. The room was silent as the team avidly listened to their leader. "Colleagues and loved ones… sometimes both." He did not need to name names; every member of the team had loved ones who were no longer with them.

Kate. Ari. Paula. Jeanne. Jenny. Michael. Ziva.

"But this year we've been lucky to have one of them return to us." Ziva lowered her gaze nervously, knowing he was speaking of her own circumstances, but the sensation of a warm hand covering hers returned her eyes to his. "It's reminded us that life is short; to never hold back, because you never know what tomorrow might bring."

Her lips remained steadfastly still, but her eyes shone with appreciation.

"To life," he finished, raising his glass.

"L'Chaim." Ziva's words were husky, but her native language rolled off her tongue like honey. To her amusement, the team repeated the Hebrew phrase as they raised their own goblets, foregoing the English in favor of the classic Jewish sentiment.

"To second chances," Tony offered, picking up where Gibbs left off. "Because life is short and family important—shit happens, and sometimes the only way to move past it, the only way to preserve the family, is to start over." They toasted his words, and then McGee was there to take up the slack.

"To hope," he said. "The hope that each uncertain day will end happily, and that the bad days are fleeting. To the hope that we make can make a difference in the world, and will one day live the lives we dream for ourselves, whatever our desires may be."

"To change," Ducky chimed in, lifting his glass higher, "because as valuable as tradition is, remaining in a perpetual state of stasis inevitably leads to death. Change is a great boon in our fragile lives, and encourages us all to work towards bettering ourselves. And it reminds us that anything is possible, if only we have the strength to work for it."

"Hear, hear," Abby said. She then cleared her throat theatrically as all focus shifted to her.

"To love," she declared. "To knowing who our friends and family are, and knowing that without it, life isn't worth living. To knowing that it can happen when you least expect it, and can sustain us through the worst of times. To knowing that it can pop up in the most unlikely of circumstances, and that it is the single most important thing in life."

"To love," they chorused, touching their glasses together one last time. This time Gibbs had to stand slightly to reach the other glasses, and while doing so allowed his hand to brush his hand along Ziva's knee.

Her hand darted from her lap to capture his fingers underneath the table, giving them a tender squeeze. He squeezes back before he settled back and the connection was broken. As everyone began to tuck in, Gibbs took a moment to glance around the table.

The team as a whole was well-dressed, but still familiarly casual. Abby had strayed the farthest from her usual style, wearing something other than black in a very long time. However, her blouse still very much _Abby_ with a slightly-off shade of metallic yellow that made his eyes hurt if he looked at it too long. All three of the men sitting in front of Gibbs were dressed similarly, with nice slacks and crisp ties around their necks. Tony was the most dressed down, with a sweater coat in place of his usual sport coat. But then Ziva, as usual, took his breath away.

The russet top she wore complemented her golden complexion perfectly, and her thick curls had been pulled back to expose her delicate features. A pair of long earrings hung from her ears, with a small section feather dangling at the end of each, tickling an elegant neck with each turn of her head. Her makeup was just enough to accentuate her natural beauty; dark liner set off her brown eyes, intensifying their gaze tenfold. A color similar to her blouse adorned her lips, and Gibbs had to force himself to focus on something other than the desire to kiss them right there and then in front of the entire team.

But what captured his attention the most bore no make-up at all. Her body was relaxed, her gaze completely without her defensive walls for the first time since her return from Somalia. She had allowed herself to be so unprotected with Gibbs for only a handful of instances in the privacy of their own home, but never in front of the whole team. But now her ease and comfort was undeniable, and Gibbs caught a glimpse of the Ziva they'd had yet to recover from the horrors of Somalia. Her smile was warm and unabashed, glowing in the dim candlelight of the room. She laughed and conversed with the team without restraint, enjoying the meal and the company wholeheartedly. It was a welcome sight, and Gibbs found he was powerless to not fall victim to the warm atmosphere as well.

They talked for hours that night, both during and after the filling meal. McGee and Dinozzo were delegated the task of washing and drying the china, allowing the women and elder men to converse lightly in Ducky's sitting room. Ducky claimed his favorite armchair for himself, and when the remaining three took up residence on his couch, Abby smoothly sandwiched herself between Gibbs and Ziva.

Gibbs was slightly disappointed at the arrangement, but he was never one to deny Abby anything. They continued to talk about anything and everything, each nursing a glass of red or white wine as they reclined in their seats.

Sometime later, Abby rose from her seat to refill her glass just as Dinozzo and McGee returned from the kitchen. Quickly reading how the situation would proceed, Ziva nipped it in the bud by smoothly sliding over to take Abby's spot. Gibbs' relief at the development was justified when Tony zipped to Ziva's now-open seat—a second or two later, he would have been wedging himself between Gibbs and Ziva.

"Hah!" Tony crowed triumphantly. "Snooze you lose, Probie!"

McGee responded with a mere roll of his eyes as he pulled up another armchair. Dinozzo proceeded to make himself comfortable, making a show of wiggling into the perfect position on the cushion before finally extending his arms to rest along the back of the couch. The movement resulted in his hand being directly behind Ziva; almost immediately his fingers began to swipe at Ziva's hair playfully. It lost its charm within moments.

"This may be an American celebration of giving thanks, Tony," Ziva said slowly, her voice deceptively sultry, "but if you do not stop I will not hesitate to castrate you."

"Don't make me reach over there, Dinozzo," Gibbs added, his voice gruffly nonchalant as he took a sip of his wine. However, the senior field agent recognized the genuine threat in his boss' voice and the offending hand was carefully retracted. It was at that moment Abby returned, and she scurried over until she was standing next to Tony, glaring down at him.

Suddenly, she lashed out, landing a sharp punch to the tender flesh of his upper arm, eliciting a yelp of pain from the agent.

"Tony!" she admonished. "You took my spot!"

"What?" Tony replied. "Nuh-uh! I took Ziva's spot—_she_ took your spot!" Another yelp followed as Abby's fist darted out once more.

"Tony!" she scolded. "What kind of friend do you think I am?" She grinned. "I would _never_ hit Ziva!"

"You don't have any problem hitting me!" Tony exclaimed, but Abby was no longer listening as she climbed over his legs to deposit herself between him and Ziva. Her added presence forced Ziva to scoot closer to Gibbs, pressing her warm frame against him.

He lifted his arm and placed on the back of the sofa, much like Tony just had, giving her more room to come closer. The four of them fit perfectly on the couch, though Gibbs could feel the touch of Ziva's body against his burn down his side. To anyone looking at them, they were simply two members of a closely bonded team, but Gibbs could tell from the way Ziva gripped her goblet tightly that she was fighting to keep her hand from straying to its customary place on his thigh. Her head tilted back imperceptibly until the back of her neck touched his arm, which he inched closer as soon as he discerned her purpose, cherishing the contact as much as she.

They spent several more hours chatting casually with the team, exchanging stories of past Thanksgivings that inevitably led to stories of past Christmases. Ziva had little to contribute, but she was happy to sit back and listen to the tales of holidays she was only marginally familiar with. Very few Israelis she knew observed the Christmas holiday, and none knew what the purpose of the Thanksgiving holiday was. Even those few Christmases she had been privy to in Israel were vastly different from Christmas in America. Within months of arriving in America five years ago, Ziva had quickly realized that Christmas in America was a completely separate holiday from the one the rest of the world celebrated.

It wasn't until Ducky began to doze off in his armchair that they all finally began to take their leave. McGee was the first to notice the medical examiner's exhaustion, and excused himself, assuring Abby that he would see her later in the weekend. Tony followed close on his heels, openly hopeful he might be able to call up one of his newest lady friends before the night was out. Abby moved to leave after the senior agent had left, but teetered dangerously as the effect of the copious amounts of wine she had consumed took effect. Gibbs steadied the happy Goth with a gentle hand.

"I'll drive you home, Abs," he said softly, giving Ziva a glance. She nodded her assent, approving of the plan and assuring him that she would meet him at home.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Ducky," she told their host, giving the older man a peck on the cheek.

"No, thank you for coming," he replied, sleep coating his words. "I would have been sorely disappointed if I had been forced to spend such a holiday by my lonesome."

"I believe it is safe to say that we all had a good time," Ziva said. She gathered her coat and gloves in her hands as she accompanied Gibbs and Abby to the front door. "I will see you next week."

"See you Monday, Duck," Gibbs added, busy getting Abby bundled in her black cloak.

"Bye, Ducky!" she exclaimed, her words slurring slightly. "Good seeing you!"

"And you, my dear," the medical examiner returned. "Now all of you drive safe. It would be unfortunate to have to autopsy all of you because you were being irresponsible drivers."

"We will be extra safe tonight, Ducky," Ziva smiled.

"Oh, good Lord I forgot who I was talking to! Telling the two worst drivers in the metro area to drive carefully!" Ducky began to chuckle. "It's almost laughable!"

"And you have had a little too much to drink tonight as well, Ducky," Ziva observed.

"I do believe you're correct, my dear," Ducky agreed. "Now begone with ye, and have a happy holidays."

"Thanks, Ducky." Gibbs opened the door and gently guided Abby through it, and held it open for Ziva as well. "You too."

The heavy wood door closed behind them, leaving them in the near pitch black that was the crisp night air. Gibbs turned to find Abby already wandering towards the Challenger, appreciatively cooing over its bold, smooth curves. Gibbs let her go, as it allowed him a chance to speak with Ziva.

"You all right to drive?" he asked as she shrugged into her coat and pulled on her gloves.

"Yes," she responded. "I did not have as much to drink as the others. And we have been talking long enough for the amount I did consume to appropriately metabolize." Gibbs pegged her with a stare. "I read the drunk driving section of the driving manual today. Apparently I have to take a written exam to get an American driver's license as well," she revealed. Gibbs grinned.

"Okay," he said with a nod. "See you at home."

"I will be waiting," she teased softly, tucking her hands into her pockets as she trotted down the porch steps towards her own car. He grinned as she called a farewell to Abby and jumped into the driver's seat of her sedan. The next minute she was gone, rolling down the driveway with more than her usual caution, but still not quite as carefully as Ducky had requested. He caught himself mid-worry.

Grinning at his own foolishness, Gibbs moved towards Abby and the waiting Challenger. Perhaps there was still a little alcohol still floating around his system, if he was worried about her driving.

_Pot,_ he thought to himself in amusement, _meet kettle._

Gibbs gently helped Abby in the passenger seat, then paced quickly to the driver's side. Turning the engine over, Gibbs backed out of the drive. Only his practiced patience kept him from implementing his lead foot and tearing out of there; the familiar urge to speed to his own home burned a fire in his gut.

After all, he had one hell of a kettle waiting for him.


	30. Little Moments

_Okay, essentially I am relying on the well-known fact that time is warped in the NCISverse in order to fill a full hour with one whole case each week. So even though it SEEMS to only take a week or so to wrap up, in this chapter the case begins in early December, and Jackson Gibbs stays for a while, not just a few just for reader-reference, I am totally aware I used two different spellings for Chanukah/Hannukah. They are the same thing, only "Hannukah" is the americanized version. So Gibbs says Hannukah while Ziva says Chanukah. Make sense?  
_

_There might be an addition to this chapter later, but that half is totally angsty and crap, and I am having difficulty reconciling it to the rest of the chapter, so it might not be posted. _

_Also, sorry about the long time between updates... well, actually, I'm not too sorry, since I had to a) wait for a new episode b) study for and take finals c) write three final papers d) work at my unit. Also, I realized I was broke, so for Christmas I have to "make" presents for my family. And since I'm crap at arts and crafts, the only thing I can make is fiction. Which means lots of writing. FOUR pieces of fiction personally tailored to ensure each recipient will be happy to actually read the damn thing. So yeah, I think given the circumstances, I churned this out pretty quick.  
_

_Enjoy, and happy holidays!_

_

* * *

  
_

Ziva tapped lightly on her keyboard, her attention focused on the screen in front of her as she searched the first lieutenant's history for any leads any to whom might have hated him enough to justify killing him. There was no doubt in Ziva's mind that his murder was religiously motivated—she more than anyone else on the team understood the importance of religion, particularly when it came into conflict with a militaristic lifestyle. It hadn't helped that the Marine had chosen Islam as the religion to convert to, while the country was in a state of war with a Muslim nation. Hate was most easily contagious in times of conflict, she knew. But in a way, she could not help but identify with the deceased man. After all, she too identified with a religion that claimed persecution of part of their historical heritage. She was so absorbed in her perusal of the lieutenant's file that she did not immediately notice the presence hovering by the windows.

"Ziva?"

The familiar, gravelly voice jolted Ziva back into sharp awareness of her surroundings, and she looked up to find one Jackson Gibbs staring at her incredulously. Ziva stood quickly as her body instinctually responded to the surprise of Jackson's abrupt appearance in the bullpen.

"Jackson." Ziva couldn't keep the surprise from lacing her tone. "What are you doing here?"

Wide eyes regarded her for a long moment, before the husky voice offered a countering query.

"I think the more appropriate question is what are _you_ doing here?"

The older man's voice wasn't reproachful; in fact, it was the slightest bit pleased with seeing her. But still, Ziva could see the wheels in his head turning, and instantly she realized that Gibbs had told his father that she had left the agency, but had not yet informed Jackson of her return. The revelation was inexplicably saddening.

"The last I heard, you no longer worked for NCIS," Jackson continued. The older man extended his arms in a familiar gesture, and Ziva moved to accept his embrace. As he held her close, his voice dropped to a whisper. "In fact, Leroy had called me to tell me you no longer worked for _anyone_." He pulled away enough to regard her with a long look. "A grown man sobbing over the phone, Ziva. That boy's heart had broken all over again."

Guilt and regret filtered through the shields in Ziva's mind, and the pain of those few, agonizing months away from Gibbs registered sharply. But then a moment later she had shoved them away again, and she called upon her training to carefully school her features. She knew that if Jethro had not told his father of her rescue, then Jackson would not know of how she had truly spent the past summer.

"There was a miscommunication as to my status for some time, Jackson," she said in a low voice as she pulled away to look at the older man. "I had thought he would have told you by now."

Jackson pulled away, a mask of a mirthless grin attempting to hide his obvious hurt. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time he left me out of the loop," he said. "You and I need to have a talk, young lady."

"Of course," Ziva responded. "Later. Now is not the time or the place." She paused. "Does Gibbs—Jethro—know you are here?"

"Yep," Jackson proclaimed proudly, "came into town yesterday. And I just came in to share some baked goods, since I know Leroy won't let you out of work just because it happens to be the holidays."

Ziva shared the older man's grin as he reached into the bag resting by his feet and pulled out a tin that had been decorated with a wintry scene of glowing windows and pale snow covering the streets of some sleepy town. The lid was promptly removed to reveal an assortment of chocolatey items, toffee, and cookies.

"COOKIES!"

Tony's sharp exclamation startled both agent and civilian as the senior field agent trotted around the staircase to peer curiously into the tin. Ziva rolled her eyes when Jackson shot her a questioning gaze.

"Tony…" Ziva started, but was cut off when the movie buff seemed to remember his manners.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Gibbs!" he greeted congenially, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "How yah doin'?" he asked.

"Just fine, thank you." The elder Gibbs glanced around the room. "You seen my boy around here recently?"

"Not since this morning," Tony replied, his attention shifting quickly back to the sweets. "You bake those yourself?"

"Not a chance," the older man said, a smile curling his lips. "The best I can do is a mean sugar cookie. These are far more sophisticated than that. Nice lady up in Stillwater was kind enough to send these down with me…"

Ziva and Tony both selected a treat to taste as Jackson went on about the tin's origins. Ziva only half-listened as she wandered back to her desk, nibbling on the piece of chocolate she had plucked from the mix. It was delicious, she had to admit, but she knew she wouldn't be able to have much more of it—rich and oversweet food still made her nauseous, ever since her rescue from the desert.

Pushing those thoughts away, Ziva instead focused on the fact that Jackson had come into town the night before, but Gibbs had not yet told her of his father's arrival. They had spent the night apart, as Ziva had been filling her role as newest Probie by standing the overnight watch in the office. But she would have thought that Jethro would have called her to let her know. It was possible he had simply forgotten, but that was unlikely.

And he hadn't told Jackson of her return to NCIS. What was that supposed to mean? Did it mean anything at all? Ziva shook her head. She letting her thoughts get away with her again. She hated the feelings of insecurity she felt, but despite her best efforts to keep them away, oftentimes they got the better of her. She had become more adept at hiding them from the others while at the office—it was when she was alone with Jethro that she felt safe enough to let them show. And he was patient with her, for which she was grateful, especially because it was his voice of reason that was now telling her to remain grounded. Jackson was here now, it told her, and it did not matter who knew what. She had no reason to suspect anything.

She just needed to relax, she decided as she watched Jackson and Tony interact animatedly in front of the plasma. For a moment, Ziva caught a glimmer of something dark in the older man's eyes as Tony prattled on about anything and everything, including snippets of the case they were working. It disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, but Ziva instantly recognized it.

It was a secret.

Jackson Gibbs was not just here for the sake of the holiday season, Ziva now had no doubt. In all of the time Ziva had spent with Jethro's father, she had only seen his eyes glow with as much innocence and happiness an old ex-fighter pilot could possibly have. He had not become cynical like the elders in her home country, bitter and angry for having lost their youth, instead accepting his age with good humor and a kind smile.

Whatever this secret was, it bothered him deeply. But Ziva forced herself to not speculate as to its nature. It was not her business, unless she was invited in. She should wait, Jethro's voice whispered in her mind. Just relax, and wait until Gibbs returned.

More would be revealed in time.

---

The shrill ringing of Ziva's desk phone interrupted yet another unofficial campfire the team had been having regarding Tony's Secret Santa woes. She was mildly surprised to hear Gibbs' voice on the other end of the line.

"Ziva, meet me down in Abby's lab."

Ziva worked to keep the surprise from registering on her features. Despite the phrasing of his instructions, his tone morphed his words into almost a request. Confusion filled her. Gibbs didn't _ask_ for anything while they were in the office. He barked orders, or silently expected her to figure something out on her own. And usually, when she happened to be with him while Abby was relaying her results, it was because she had wandered into the Goth's lab of her own volition, not because Gibbs specifically wanted her there. If the results were important, the entire team went down. And Gibbs certainly never _asked_ them to be present.

"All right," she replied. She hung up the phone and quickly left her desk, leaving the other two to continue their conversation—what had they been discussing? She knew she should remember, as she had been part of it mere moments ago, but she couldn't focus enough recall the information. Her mind kept racing between thoughts of Jackson's behavior earlier, and Jethro's attitude towards him, and of course, the darkness in the elder Gibbs' eyes.

Over the months, Ziva had noticed how very similar the two men were, but one feature that always stood out to her as a stark difference were their eyes. The color was the same, but it was barely noticeable beneath the layers of personality that shrouded them. Though the circumstances behind the gazes of each man could fill volumes, the matter could be succinctly put in a few simple words.

While Jackson had seen many years, and had the benefit of more fascinating experiences than most people could hope for, Jethro had seen much more. He had seen and experienced the worst of human nature, had lived through more than any man should ever have to. Jethro's gaze had long been darkened by memories of his family's death, while Jackson had only been on the outside looking in. He had not been privy to his son's all-encompassing grief, while Jethro had lived with it, has been living with it, for years. Jackson still saw the world positively, still expected the good in people to prevail over their deviant tendencies. And living in a town like Stillwater had allowed him to keep believing as such.

But the afternoon before, when Ziva had seen that innocence falter… for a moment Jackson had had Jethro's eyes.

Ziva tapped the button that called the elevator that would take her to Abby's lab. When the doors slid open, she was surprised to find Gibbs already standing in the elevator. He pegged her with meaningful stare, and she quickly entered the elevator to join him. As soon as the car began to move, Gibbs' brow arched in silent question, asking for the permission she knew he would wait for. He no longer turned the elevator into an office while she was in it. Not since she had the panic attack when the elevator broke down a few months ago.

But Ziva sensed his need to talk privately, and so it was her slender fingers that sent the car grinding to a halt, leaving them in partial darkness. She turned to him expectedly as they shared a silent understanding; she would turn the car back on if she felt herself starting to panic. She leaned casually against the wall as she focused her attention on him, mirroring his own posture as he sipped his coffee. She waited for him to make the first move.

"Have you noticed anything about Jackson?" he asked finally, his voice low. Ziva was not surprised by his query; in fact, she had been half-expecting it.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally. When he captured her gaze with one of his own, she tried to elaborate. "I did notice _something_, but it is difficult to describe." It wasn't really, but she was reluctant to describe it to him without having something more than a brief moment of doubt to go off of.

"He's not here for Christmas," Gibbs stated matter-of-factly.

"I came to the same conclusion." She shot him a questioning glance. "Does it matter what he came for? He is here, no? He is your father. And he does care for you. Of that I am certain."

"I know that," he said. He took another swig of his coffee. "But something's bothering him."

"Did you ask him what it was? Sometimes all it takes is someone's curiosity to get them talking."

"I don't think he'll tell me," Gibbs admitted. "He's my dad, remember? Most parents don't want their kids to know something is bothering them—unless it has to do with the kids themselves."

"Well, I do not think this is about you."

"Me neither." After a moment, Gibbs took a step closer to her. "Jackson's at the house right now. I'm going to be working on this thing all night, so maybe we can get this finished before Christmas." He looked at her intently. "Do you think you can stay with him for the evening?"

Ziva was slightly taken aback by his request, but quickly recovered. "I would be happy to," she said softly, taking his free hand in one of hers. He wrapped his fingers around her hand firmly, and she smiled at the warm contact.

"Thanks," he said.

"No need for thanks, Jethro," she told him. "After all, this is what family does for one another, yes?" She was rewarded with the sight of his eyes—those shadowed eyes—sparkling brightly. "Besides," she continued, "I like Jackson. I enjoy spending time with him. It is not a chore."

Gibbs smiled at her before leaning down to deposit a chaste kiss to her forehead. The gesture was familiar, comforting, and Ziva felt the tension of the past few hours melt away. She moved closer to him, allowing her body to press against his. He wrapped a strong arm around her, enjoying the contact just as much as she did. Ziva closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest; she was not sure why she suddenly felt so relieved, as the case was not the most trying they had encountered. But the relief she found in his embrace was undeniable.

Finally he pulled away, but not before pressing a small object into the palm of her right hand. Her fingers curled around it instinctively as Gibbs reached out and sent the elevator back into motion, taking them the rest of the way to Abby's lab.

"By the way," he said, his eyes twinkling, "happy first day of Hanukkah."

Before Ziva had a chance to respond, the doors slid open with a ding and Gibbs left to enter Abby's lab. Ziva reached out a hand to keep the doors from closing as she lingered, bringing her hand up to peer at her recently acquired treasure.

Her heart fluttered softly as her eyes were greeted with the sight of a dreidel. It was heavy in her hand, constructed of brilliant silver that reflected the pale light of the elevator's interior. Familiar characters were inlaid on each of its four sides, and its stem was braided metal to allow her fingers easy purchase.

The gift was small, simple, but Ziva knew without a doubt that it was more than something he might have picked up as an afterthought. Most dreidels in America were flimsy wooden things, denuded of all artistry save for its traditional four painted letters. But this… she had only seen this level of craftsmanship in Israeli dreidels. He would have had to go searching for this—a gesture in and of itself, as even she had been unaware that today was the start of Chanukah.

It was not one of the most important holidays of her religion, and it was not as convenient to remember as Christmas was, as it began on a different day each year. She had not yet had a chance to look up the dates for this year, even if she had intended to celebrate, which was not high on her list of priorities; much like Rivkin, she no longer practiced much.

The knowledge that Gibbs had gone to all the trouble of researching the dates, and finding a gift such as this—it struck a chord deep within Ziva. For a brief moment she was reminded of Tali, who had also been fond of giving gifts that were exquisite, and not necessarily practical. She had never asked what Ziva wanted for Chanukah, instead finding something she felt would be right for her older sister.

Slender fingers curled around the item once more, bringing it to rest briefly against her heart as she abandoned the safe refuge of the elevator. But then she tucked it into her pocket as she entered into the blaring music of Abby's lab, and only a knowing glance shared between agent and supervisor hinted at the tender moment that had transpired between them just moments ago.

* * *

_P.S. How's that for a **30**th chapter?_


	31. Nothing More

Gibbs pulls the car into the driveway and throws it into park. Before opening the door and venturing into snowy chill of the outdoors, he turns to throw a grin to the car's sole other occupant.

"I still don't believe it," he says. Before she can retaliate, he is out of the car, but he waits for her to join him on the other side of the car before heading into the house.

"I am telling you Jethro, he made someone's Christmas very special," she says, her cheeks rosy as she crunches towards him through the snow. "He did the research all on his own, albeit illegally, and got this woman a doll she had probably wanted since she was a little girl." She presses into him, hoping to share his warmth, and he obliges her by wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, even though it leaves his ungloved fingers vulnerable to the swirling snow. "I did not think that woman was even capable of smiling, but what Tony did made her so happy that she grinned so broadly I thought her cheeks would break."

"Can cheeks break?" he teases, bumping her casually. She glares up at him through the falling flakes, and bumps him right back.

"You know what I mean," she declares. "Do not tease my English, or else you will find coal in your shoes tomorrow." They finally reach the porch, and he helps her up the steps, just in case they might be icy.

"Americans put coal in stockings, Ziver."

She looks at him. "Really? That does not seem very frightening. Surely putting the coal in children's shoes would be more uncomfortable. Unless… do they use the stockings to hit each other, like the Marines used soap in their socks in _Full Metal Jacket_?" Jethro looks at her in disbelief, but when he sees her expression deathly serious, he grins.

"Coal isn't supposed to cause physical pain," he informs her. "And you've been spending too much time with Dinozzo," he adds, but this she ignores.

"But how else is the threat of giving children coal for Christmas supposed to convince them to behave?" She pulls her keys from her coat pocket and sets about unlocking the door. Normally they don't have to bother, but Jackson had taken to locking the doors whenever he was home alone. Her fingers are stiff from cold, but after two tries the key finally slips into the lock.

"It's not the coal that convinces them," he reveals, "it's the lack of actual presents it symbolizes."

"Ah, appealing to a child's sense of greed." The door opens, and a flood of warmth engulfs them, beckoning them deeper into the house. "How very American."

He laughs then, as he shuts the door behind them, realizing the truth of her wry comment. She gives him a smile, and his mirth only doubles when he sees her eyes twinkle in the low light. His is still chuckling when he sees Jackson step into the hallway.

"Hey, Pop," he greets casually.

Ziva turns to face the older man. "Good evening, Jackson." The words are polite, but her tone is warm. Jethro frowns when Jackson averts his gaze.

"Evenin'," his father returns to both of them. There is none of the usual charm in Jackson's voice, and what can be seen of the man's expression is downcast. Ziva notices the unusual behavior as well, and glances at Jethro in question. He signals silently with a tip of his head, and Ziva understands without protest. She gives him a quick kiss as she takes his coat from his hand, and swiftly disappears from the foyer.

Jethro steps up close to his father, which allows him to keep his voice low; Jackson doesn't like being questioned, especially if he thinks there's an audience.

"What's the problem, Dad?" He doesn't have the patience to beat gently around the bush.

"Nothing, son," comes the response. "It's not my place—" He's hedging now, and Jethro calls it.

"That's never stopped you before." He looks the older man in the eye, compelling him to come clean. "What's on your mind?" There's a moment more of hesitation, but then the familiar, graveled voice cuts through the silence of the house.

"It's just, I've been thinking… You know I always liked Ziva, son, but lately I came to realize…" Jethro pulls back now, his gut aching with unexpected pain as he discovers his father's misgivings.

"Oh, Pop—"

"You can do better, son."

"Not better than her." His voice is deathly serious, and his unwavering stare seems to take his father aback slightly, but the older man plows on nonetheless. Now that he's started, he can't stop.

"I know how bad she hurt you when she left last spring, Leroy. How do you know she won't do it again?" Jethro waves him away but he takes no heed. "She's dangerous, a killer! She only hinted at what happened this summer when you had her babysit me last night, and it made me sick!" Jethro leaves him, trying to keep his temper in check by moving to the darkened kitchen. Jackson lumbers after him, unwilling to let it go. "Even if she isn't the same person she was when she first came to work for you, you have no idea what she could be capable of. She could hurt you, she could hurt herself! And after what she told me… haven't you been through enough heartache?" Jethro freezes, sensing the words that are about to be uttered from his father's lips. Believing he finally has his son's attention, Jackson moves in for the final strike. "She's dam—"

His words die in his throat when Jethro whirls around to face him, his usually clear blue eyes now startlingly stormy. There is an aura of clear and present danger around him now, something that Jackson has never before seen in his kind-hearted son. For the first time in his life, Jackson is wary of Jethro, his own blood freezing even in the warmth of the house. There is a silent, momentary standoff as Jethro battles the rage within him and Jackson is suddenly too fearful to continue.

"Don't say it," comes the warning. His tone is scorching, dripping with barely concealed ire. "Don't even think it." Stormy eyes flash dangerously once more. "You don't know _anything_."

Jethro turns and storms to the kitchen door, hoping that they had managed to keep their voices low enough that Ziva had not overheard them. Finally knowing better than to continue, Jackson lets his son go, but is surprised when Jethro turns back at the last minute and stalks swiftly back to his side. The elder Gibbs remains still and silent, freezing much as if he would if faced with a caged bear. Jethro steps into him, bringing his lips down to whisper in his father's ear.

"Tomorrow, you're gone."

And then he disappears into the stairwell, taking with him Jackson's hope for a Christmas of family as he trots up the stairs to join his bewitching lover.

---

Jethro doesn't speak to him for the rest of the night, but he has thankfully not told Ziva of what had transpired between them. Instead she is left confused and torn between her lover and a man she respects. She struggles to remain cordial, but her efforts are mostly unnoticed by the sullen men. Finally, she surrenders her cause and joins the silence. She cooks a Christmas Eve dinner that surpasses the finest homecooking in Stillwater, and Jackson asks for seconds, though Jethro is barely able to finish his first portion. Ziva notices, but doesn't call attention to it, though her brow furrows slightly in concern.

Throughout the meal her hand brushes against Jethro, silently assuring him of her support and care. Jackson notices that he does not shy away from the gentle, curious touches; he sees his son finally take her hand casually in his, and even his failing vision cannot miss the firm grip Jethro keeps on her fingers. He sees the calloused thumb trace the smallest of circles against her skin, and he sees her relax a little at the intimate motion. But his gaze never lingers on _her_ for long, as if he is afraid she might read his thoughts if they ever made eye contact.

Finally, the meal is over, and Ziva volunteers to clean up. Jackson knows she is trying to get them to work out whatever is prompting the Gibbses' silence, but her attempts are rendered futile when Jethro takes over the task of drying the dishes, and Jackson retires to the sitting room. At first the house is quiet, but then Jackson begins to hear the faint sound of murmurs and whispers coming from the kitchen. The sounds grow into hushed giggles and yelps and Jethro's deep chuckles as splashing water joins the fray. Ten minutes later they both emerge, conspicuously wet with sparkling eyes.

They disappear again, preparing to turn in early after a long, taxing case. Jackson remains in the living room, not quite ready to call it a night. He hears their coordinated movements through the ceiling, the laughing voices muffled and indistinct. When they next appear, they are in casual pajamas; Jethro a white skivvy shirt and blue pants with sailboats (an obvious gift, most likely meant in jest), and Ziva a black delicate top with black shorts. It speaks of comfort and familiarity, but the cozy image is shattered by the fact they are both carrying their service weapons.

Jackson watches warily as they cross to the gun safe on the shelf. Jethro keys the lock and the door springs open. He deposits his handgun without hesitation, sliding it into the shadowed depths of the safe with practiced ease. Then he turns to Ziva, and to Jackson's surprise, she seems to hesitate. Her expression is apprehensive, and her fingers curl tightly around the grip. Jackson is unable to look away, frozen by the sight of a weapon held so dearly by such a well-known hand. Unbidden memories flood his mind, and he almost misses Jethro leaning in to whisper something indiscernible in her ear.

Whatever it is, Jackson knows it has something to do with him, as he sees Ziva's chocolatesweet eyes flick towards the couch where he sits. Finally her grip relaxes, and Jethro takes possession of it. He lays it next to his own, and then the safe is closed with a beep, locking automatically. And then Jackson can breathe again, and he watches them vanish up the stairs once again, with only Ziva bidding him a soft goodnight.

He sits quietly in the dark, even after all movement from up above ceases. He tries not to think but the memories come back to him anyway. A bitter taste lingers in his mouth as his gut clenches painfully, as wraiths of fearful eyes plead for help that can no longer save them. But then he shakes his head and they disappear, though the discomfort is still there.

He takes the stairs slowly, silently, when he goes up to the guest room. He hopes his sleep tonight will be dreamless, but predicts that it will not be. But when he gets to his room he hesitates, reluctant to drift into the realm of nightmares. He avoids the bed in favor of the chair in the corner. He gazes at the dark room with wary eyes, and finally turns on the lamp beside him. He wishes he had a book, or a crossword, anything to focus on something other than his failures.

The minutes tick by, then an hour, and he feels himself begin to fade. His lids begin to droop despite his best efforts to keep them open, and his head bobs involuntarily. He is just starting to consider moving to the bed when the most unnerving sound he had ever heard in his life pierces his awareness.

The cry is not a yell or a shriek, but the voice is decidedly female, and Jackson could not have ever predicted hearing the only woman in the house ever emitting such tortured sound. It is little more than a moan but it is pained, as if drawn out from between her lips against her will. It is enough to jolt Jackson into acute awareness, all remnants of sleep gone in the blink of an eye. He waits for another moan, but the terrified shout and thudding scuffle from across the hall sends ice running through his veins. Before he truly registers the sound he is out of his chair, flinging the door open as he moves to his son's bedroom.

It is the quickest he has moved in years, and Jethro is just clicking on the light when Jackson opens the door. But Jethro doesn't even glance his way as he flings off the heavy bedspread and scrambles to where a trembling girl is cowering in the corner. His son's calloused hands move to touch her in reassurance, but pulls back at the last moment. It takes Jackson some time to recognize the girl as Ziva.

Her usual self-assuredness had vanished, leaving pure unadulterated fear in its place. She is curled in on herself, attempting to make herself smaller, or invisible, as she hides her face from the sudden light. She is muttering something, in a language that isn't English. At first Jackson thinks she is still dreaming, speaking in some dream language, but then Jethro seems to understand and responds in the same nonsense language. His voice is low and comforting, a deep monotone that seems to ease her anxiety somewhat. He seems to say the same unfamiliar words over and over again, and after what seems to be an eternity she relaxes just enough to uncover her face.

Her dark eyes are even darker than usual, wet with tears that pour down her cheeks and drip from the tip of her nose and chin. They dart warily around the room, but do not seem to see him or recognize her surroundings. Another soft word from Jethro and her attention is focused on his face and his face alone. She grips his hand tightly, as if she might drift away if he lets go. But Jackson can see that his son has no intention of ever letting her go before she was ready.

"Jethro," the word is out of his mouth before his better sense can keep it contained. "What on Earth—"

His words are cut off when dark piercing eyes flash to him. For a moment he thinks she might attack him, but then something in her gaze breaks and the terror returns. Her breathing quickens, and soon she is gasping for air. Jethro barely manages to glare in his direction before his focus returns to Ziva once more, but his voice is laced with the venom his expression doesn't have time to convey.

"Jack—go." His words are short, and it is clear his concern for his lover outweighs his anger at his father. "Ziver…"

But with another heart-rending cry she shoves him away, as if his skin burns to touch. She presses herself farther into the corner, her gaze darting fearfully between the two men. Her palms press to her temples, and her lips whisper _lo, lo, lo_. Stillwater's single rabbi has helped Jackson pick up the bare essentials of Hebrew, and he knows she pleading no, no, no.

Before Jackson can ask anything more, Jethro stands and sweeps towards him. As soon as his son has vacated his position Ziva scrambles away, finding a more sheltered corner that hides her from Jackson's sight. But then his son's warm hands are pushing him away, moving him back into the hallway.

"Son," he says, trying to both convey his desire to help and his need to know more, but Jethro's eyes remain hard.

"Do _not_ come in here again." The order comes swift and sure, and then the door closes between them, effectively shutting Jackson out from the volatile life within. For a moment Jackson stands beside the door, hoping to hear what was happening, but Jethro's voice was too low. Ziva's voice was not audible, if she did speak at all. Finally, with a sigh, he left them, and made his way back downstairs. He starts a pot of coffee, knowing that he will not be sleeping that night, even if he wanted to.

His hands shake as he pours in the fresh grind, and the first vestiges of fear creeps into his own mind as the shock wears off. He knows that the Ziva he knew would not have ever harmed him, but it is now quite obvious that he longer knows who this Ziva is. She looks like Ziva and acts like Ziva, but her eyes are not Ziva's and her fear is not Ziva's. And yet, he cannot deny that while he himself is unfamiliar with the young woman, his son is not at a similar loss.

_He_ knows this Ziva, in all her unfamiliarity. He recognizes her somehow, lives with her, works with her. And it is now obvious that Jethro's failure to inform him of this Ziva's return to NCIS, to America, was not a mistake. But for all of the danger that now shrouds the damaged woman, Jackson cannot overlook the glaring truth. Jethro _loves_ this Ziva. He loves her just as much as, if not more than, the old Ziva.

When the coffee is done he pours himself a liberal dose, and then prepares a second filter, ready to start another pot as soon as the first is empty. He takes his mug and cane out to the back porch, and stands in the thin layer of snow as he leans against the rail. The flurry of snow has stopped, leaving the sky black and clear. His breath billows from his lips and his shirt does little to ward off the lingering chill, but he waits anyway. He waits until he hears the door behind him slide open again, and the familiar soft steps of his son's booted feet comes toward him.

For a long moment they stand side by side, both sipping silently from steaming mugs. Finally, Jackson breaks the quiet.

"She all right?" His voice sounds harsh in the stillness, but Jethro doesn't blink.

"No, Pop," he says, his voice crackling with heavy emotion. It makes Jackson glance at his son in concern. "She's not." He takes another sip from his mug, and when he next speaks, the hoarseness is gone. "She's sleeping now. We have a few minutes."

After a tense moment, Jackson finally brings himself address the obvious hurt. "What happened when she left, son?" He thinks his query will go unanswered, but he is surprised by his son once again.

"Her father sent her to die." Jethro takes a swig from his mug. "That's the bottom line. And she welcomed it. But instead of killing a terrorist on her way out, he captured her. Made her live through three months of hell before we found her."

Jackson sucks in a breath, his throat suddenly tight. He had suspected something terrible had happened, but he knows from his days as a pilot that life as a POW is a fate worse than death. He also knows that it is ten times worse when the prisoner is not a soldier but a clandestine operative, and that it is even more dangerous for women than it is for captured men.

"Jesus." It is the only word that Jackson can get past the lump in his chest. But he takes a deeper breath, and manages to continue. "PTSD?"

"Not that she'd ever admit it." His lips curl in a wry grin. "She passed the psych eval though, to become an agent. She's careful how she acts around the others. She tries to be how she used to be, for the sake of the team. It's gotten easier now, but she still has a difficult time of it."

"Flashbacks?"

"Not so much flashbacks as she does nightmares. She watches herself so carefully at the Navy Yard that she doesn't let herself have a panic attack if there's a trigger, but at night her defenses are down, and she can't handle it."

"She have those often? The nightmares." This time, Jackson's inquiry is out of honest concern.

"Every few nights, give or take." Jethro sighs. But then it is as if a dam has burst, and the words spill out. "She'll bolt up in bed, gun at the ready. I pretend to be asleep, and then, once she's had a chance to wake up the whole way, I turn over, give her a chance to recognize me without feeling threatened." He takes another swig. "Then she'll clear every room in the house. She checks every window, every door, making sure everything is how we left it. On worse nights she'll even check the street out front, and the backyard, to make sure no one is surveilling the house." When Jethro next speaks, his voice is once again thick.

"She comes back to bed, and I wrap my arms around her. She says sorry, and I know it's not for waking me, but I tell her I love her. And that's enough to get us through to the next morning."

Jackson takes a long look at his son, and sees how true his words are. But still, the scene upstairs has him on edge. "What made tonight different?"

"She didn't have her weapon." Jethro's tone is hard, blunt. "She woke up completely defenseless, and she thought she was back in the desert. It's happened before, but not for a while. Being in the dark, alone, without a weapon, and the tension from what was happening with us…" A wave of his hand indicates the space between the two men, then falls back to the rail. "It was too much. You barging in made it worse."

"You were saying something—"

"Arabic. After the first couple times it happened, I had Jardine teach me a few phrases so I could help her calm down easier. She blocks out the English, and only hears the Arabic that was shouted at her for three months. It's the only way to get into her dream, help her wake up from it." Jethro straightens and turns to his father, his eyes flashing in the dark. "She didn't have her weapon because she put it in the safe." His voice is accusing, angry. "I told her about why you're here, what happened in the store, and how you reacted to _my_ piece, and she agreed to lock it away. She sacrificed her own peace of mind for yours." His voice turns scornful, chilling Jackson's bones more quickly than the dropping temperature. "For someone who says she's _not good enough_."

Jackson feels something else creep into gut, something he has become all too familiar with during the past week. Guilt.

"Son—"

"She's broke, Pop." The fight has vanished from his son's voice, leaving an unspoken sadness in its wake. "She's broke, but she's not damaged." He pauses. "Most people think that being broken is worse than being damaged, but they're wrong. Damaged are the soldiers who get flak to the head and can't ever remember who or what they are. Damaged are the men who come home and beat their wives because they can't adjust to a noncombat environment. You can't fix damaged." He takes a steadying sip from his cooling drink. Jackson watches him, but remains silent, knowing that his son is not finished.

"But broke can be fixed, and God knows why but she's letting me help her heal. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and half the time I'm convinced I'm only making it worse. But then she tells me she loves me, and that she's glad that I haven't given up on her.

"And when she has nightmares, when she locks herself in the bathroom so that she can have a few moments to herself, I let her, and I don't worry about the razors or the pills that are sitting on the shelf. Because I know that she won't hurt herself, and I know because she promised she would never leave me again. And I trust her more than I trust anyone else.

"No matter what you think, I know she's not a killer, Dad, because she doesn't want to be. She was strong enough to leave her father and her country behind because she didn't want to be a killer anymore, and you have absolutely no room to judge. I don't care what the hell you think. You can call her dangerous, you can call her a killer, but everything you think of her is what you think of me too."

"Leroy—"

"Pop, I don't know what you've been thinking I did in the Corps, but the God's honest truth is that I killed people. I shot them down from 800 meters through a scope that let me see blood pop from their skulls. Sometimes I even saw the life leave their eyes, if they fell just the right way.

"So before you call her dangerous, or a killer, just remember that you raised a son who did the exact same things she did." He takes a deep breath, letting the cool air soothe the fire in his soul. "But think whatever you want. Just don't let me or her let you say it, because I'll be damned if I haven't worked all these months trying to convince her that she'd be wrong for agreeing with you."

Confusion fills Jackson now. "I don't understand, son."

"She thinks she really is the monster her father trained her to be. She thinks she really will amount to nothing more than a heartless assassin. And she's just starting to believe me when I tell her she isn't." Jethro turns to Jackson once more, but this time there is only honesty.

"I love her, Dad. I let her go, and it almost killed her. It almost killed _me_. Somehow, I managed to get her back, and she doesn't hate me, even though I hate myself. I'm not letting her go again. I'm not making that mistake again."

Jackson sighs. "I know." Jethro looks at him, his eyes scrutinizing. "I made a mistake, son. I was wrong, before. I shouldn't have said what I did. That girl has done nothing but love you, but when she was keeping me company yesterday, I realized that she was more like that man with a shotgun than I had noticed before, and it scared me. I didn't want you to have your heart broken again, but I realize now that I was the one doing the breaking." Old blue eyes meet young ones, both searching; one for forgiveness, the other for answers. "Can you accept a scared old man's apology, son?"

A moment passes, as his son regards him. Finally, Jethro steps closer and pulls Jackson into a one-armed hug. It is not as intimate as some in the past has been, but it lifts Jackson's heart anyway.

"And I'll be apologizing to Ziva too," he adds. Feeling Jethro stiffen, he continues. "I won't tell her why. I think it'd do more harm than good." His son nods in agreement, and pulls away. He stands for a moment more, then turns to move back indoors. Before he can get more than a step away, Jackson asks him one more question.

"Would you really have abandoned me, your flesh and blood, to stay with her?"

Jackson's tone is not judgmental, only curious. Jethro turns to face his father, and responds just as honestly.

"She was there for me when you weren't, Pop." He doesn't mean for it to be hurtful, but it cuts Jackson's soul anyway. As sensing his pain, Jethro feels the need to explain his words. "Did I ever tell you I was in a coma?"

Jackson nods. "Around the same time Shannon and Kelly—"

"No. Since then." Jethro steps towards him. "Four years ago, a son of a bitch Abu Sayyif terrorist blew up part of a freighter I was on. I was under for a couple of days, but when I woke up I couldn't remember anything since Desert Storm. Shannon and Kelly had just died, and I thought my world was falling apart."

"You never told—"

"She was there. She gave me back my memories. She's saved my life again and again since then, and I have no doubt she'll save it again in the future. It's just who she is." He pauses again, this time hesitant. "If she wasn't broke, and I wasn't scared stiff… I'd ask her to marry me, Pop."

The revelation shocks him, but Jackson is not altogether surprised. Though he could not say he had seen it coming, he realizes that it was _right_. His son was never one to play with women, never mind what his marriage record implied. And he had raised his boy to know when he had a good thing. Jackson nods, not giving blessing, because he knows his son doesn't need it, but in acceptance and happiness.

"She's about to wake up soon," Jethro says. "She won't get any real sleep tonight… just alternating bouts night terrors and sudden consciousness." He turns back to the house, and Jackson knows the conversation has ended.

"Hope you put on some more coffee," Jackson remarks, following his son indoors, his tone casual. Jethro looks at him.

"Old pot's still there," he responds with his familiar bluntness. He lifts his mug in indication. "Hot chocolate," he reveals.

Jackson splutters a barely concealed laugh of surprise. "Chocolate? Since when do you _not_ drink coffee at all hours of the night?"

"On nights like this, Ziva panics when she smells caffeine. She thinks I'm—" he catches himself, and finally substitutes, "someone else."

Jackson doesn't ask who that someone else might be; he doesn't want to know. Maybe someday he will have the courage to ask if his son if he ever gave the bastard what he deserved.

"I'll stay down here," Jackson says. "Stay out of your way and what not."

Before he gets a response, Jethro has already trotted up the stairs, intent on returning to Ziva. This time, Jackson does not feel slighted or bitter; instead he smiles, content with the knowledge that his son knew what was truly important.

And true to Jethro's word, he hears movement and voices upstairs soon after. He tries not to notice the pain and fear in Ziva's, nor the frantic scuffles across the floor above him. Eventually it falls silent once more, but the stillness does not last long. The alternating periods of silence and muted sound are not identical in length, some lasting seconds, others mintues, but each time Jethro is there to soothe her pain and calm her nerves. And despite his earlier prediction of not sleeping that night, soon Jackson himself drifts off to the low rumble of his son's voice creeping through the ceiling.

He wakes midmorning to find the world outside blanketed in snow. It is bright and glaring, but the magic of Christmas snow persists, eliciting a smile from the eldest Gibbs. He slips on his coat and pours himself another cup of coffee before venturing into the winter wonderland. The backyard is a carpet of pristine snow, void of even the tell-tale animal tracks of birds and squirrels foraging for food. He shuffles towards the rail, but a dark shape in one of the deckchairs catches his eye.

He grins when he finds the two sleeping forms of Jethro and Ziva resting in the wooden piece of furniture. She has a blanket wrapped around her legs and feet while another covers her arms and loops over her head like a shawl. Her nose is red but her features are finally peaceful as she rests her head on Jethro's shoulder. He wears an old pair of snow pants Jackson had once given him, but he too has a blanket that insulates his arms as they wrap around Ziva's frail frame. He is also dozing, but not as deeply as she. Blue eyes blink open when he feels Jackson's gaze on him.

They focus on the older man for a moment before glancing towards Ziva in concern. When it is apparent that she has not stirred, he relaxes once more. Jackson clears snow from a neighboring stool with his cane and sits beside them, ignoring the residual cold that seeps through the material of his trousers. He is hesitant to speak, for fear of waking Ziva, but Jethro assuages his worries.

"She's out," he said softly, "finally. She won't wake up if you whisper."

"How did you two to find your way out here?"

"I was in the head when she woke up the last time. She ran out here, and saw the snow." A smile crosses his features. "Kinda hard to think you're in a desert when it's snowing." Then he shrugs. "She wanted to stay out here, so we did. She finally passed out just after dawn."

Jackson glances over their shrouded forms, taking in the dusting of snow that had accumulated on their blankets. Ziva's breath mists in the frosty air, but neither agents shiver. It becomes clear that their combined body heat and the blankets swaddling them have proven greater than the falling snow.

"Tonight, I want you to tell her I don't mind if she doesn't safe her gun." Jackson's voice seems to echo across the muted landscape, but Ziva still does not stir. "It never occurred to me that something that kills people could also bring someone comfort."

A wry chuckle answers his observation.

"Guns don't kill people, Dad," Jethro tells him. "People kill people. Sometimes they just happen to use guns to do it." He sighs then, settling back in his chair. "I'll tell her."

"You don't think she'll object?" Even Jackson knows that Ziva is too prideful to appreciate any form of preferential treatment.

"She might," Jethro admits. "But not for long. Not after tonight. Neither of us want to go through that again anytime soon."

Jackson can sense the conversation drifting towards the melancholy again, and quickly decides that Christmas was not a day for darkness. He stands, brushing the snow from the seat of his trousers.

"What can I make you two for breakfast?" he inquires congenially. "You know I can cook up a mean egg."

He is surprised when it is not Jethro who responds, but Ziva.

"He remembers, Jackson," she declares as she straightens in Jethro's arms, stretching the sleep from her limbs. "He was commenting on it just a few days ago." She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "But I am afraid that breakfast is already being taken care of."

"Ziver has her own recipes to share with you, Dad, but you have to taste them first. Which means _she's _cooking breakfast." He plants a kiss on her temple, but does not relax his hold on her when she tries to stand up. "You don't have shoes on," he reminds her. Jackson grins when he sees a familiar eyeroll.

"Going five steps in the snow is not going to kill me, Jethro," she counters, "considering I once spent three days in sub-zero Russia with nothing but jeans and a light jacket." When he still does not release her, her eyes narrow ominously. "And if you continue to treat me as if the slightest thing will break me, I will break _you_."

At this, Jethro grins, and finally lets her up. She steps into the snow, and Jackson cannot see the slightest reaction to the biting cold. Instead, she returns Jethro's kiss with one of her own.

"Besides, if I do get sick, just think—you'll get to nurse me back to health." Her playful gaze glances to Jackson. "He has not yet had the pleasure of seeing me ill," she reveals to the older man with a wink. And then she is moving through the snow and into the house.

"It's true," Jethro confirms as the two men follow a short length behind. "The woman doesn't get sick. One of these days she's going to get smallpox, and I'll _finally_ be able to tell her 'I told you so'."

"I heard that!" Ziva calls from inside the house. Jethro quickly joins her in the kitchen, and Jackson hears them exchange barbs as they begin to pull out pots and pans in preparation for breakfast. He cannot help but marvel at how they both move about their day, as if it were simply any other morning, and they have not spent the entire night battling demons most people never even dreamed of.

But then, he realizes with a jolt, that is what life is meant to be. They could not live their lives by focusing on the darkness that had kept them apart for three months. They could only forgive or forget, and continue to forge on in spite of it all.

Jackson had once thought he had grasped the concept, when his wife died. He hadn't spent the rest of his life wallowing in sorrow for his deceased wife, and had instead striven to life what years he had left to the fullest. But even he is but a pale comparison to the magic he sees between Ziva and his son, he realizes. And then he notices that the magic must be present every single morning, as the demons never really left either of them. He wonders if they even notice the significance of this morning's date.

He considers wishing them a merry Christmas, but quickly decides to wait. They do not need the added wish. They do not need _any_ wish to get them through the day. Through keen eyes Jackson observes them move around each other, before Jethro finally steps back and lets Ziva take over. But his son does not go far, instead taking up residence at the table to read an old newspaper while Ziva cooks.

They are who they are, Jackson recognizes, and they accept it without fault. They have each other, and the rest falls away.

They love together, and need nothing more.

* * *

A/N: This is not the original addition I mentioned last chapter. But it has some of the same themes, just delivered differently. For some reason, this chapter came out in present tense, something that hasn't happened so far. But it works for this story I think. And I am sorry if you dislike my portrayal of Jackson Gibbs as the semi-villain here. But if yah think about it, given the Christmas episode, it's a viable concern for a father to have.

I also want to clarify something. "Broke" in this instance, does not mean "without money". Broke is a Marine term that is often used to describe someone who is physically hurt, which keeps them from being the best they can be. For instance, a Marine might say "I used to run a sub-18 PFT, but I broke three years ago" which translates into "I used to be a beast at running 3 miles for the fitness test, but I injured myself couple years back." It's part of the Marine mentality. I hope that came through in the fic okay. Oh, and Gibbs says he was "in the head", which is Marine for "I was taking a leak". Just FYI, for those who didn't know. I can just see some poor little French girl scratching her head going "what doez ziss crazy American mean, _in ze head_? either eet eez typo, or shee iz crayzee, no?" (thats supposed to be a french accent. I'm also playing around with transcribing various dialects and accents, can yah tell?)

Happy Holidays! Happy New Year! Can't wait for the first 2010 episode of NCIS, anyone with me?


	32. The Coming Storm

"That attorney really has you rattled, yes?"

Ziva's voice rang clear and true from where she was washing up in the bathroom. Gibbs was relaxed on the bed, flicking through an old boating magazine he had found the other day. He glanced up at the sound of her voice, but the bathroom door was closed just enough to obscure his view of her.

"Nah," he returned, his tone casual. "Just curious."

"I tried to do some research on her, but I have not found anything that her webpage did not corroborate. If we want to look deeper, we will need warrants. We cannot risk her finding out that we've been doing illegitimate searches into her background."

"God forbid we give her any more rope to hang us with." Gibbs tossed the magazine aside. His hands came to rest beneath his head as he stared mindlessly at the ceiling.

"For someone who is such a stickler for rules, she does not like to follow them herself," Ziva observed. This sparked Gibbs' interest.

"What do you mean?"

"Do not tell me you were so intrigued by her cold blue stare that you missed the fact that she overlooked a potential conflict of interest by taking on both Tillmans as clients just to get the chance to piss you off. And I talked to security—the assignments for agency vehicles are not open to the public, as it would pose a potential security threat. If that private investigator had utilized legitimate methods, he should not have been able to tail us when we went to go talk to Tillman the first time."

Gibbs took a moment to mull over the information. It didn't really surprise him; the damn woman _looked_ like a hypocrite, as harsh and ruthless in her own practices as she was in judging others'. What did surprise him was that he hadn't considered that on his own. He had been so wrapped up in trying to discover her endgame that he missed potentially vital information. Another added benefit of having Ziva at his side.

But still, the information would not do much in his battle with the attorney. On its own, it would do little more than make Hart smirk if they tried to confront her with it too early. But it would be good to have if the woman slipped further; sentencing can be brutal if there was a suspected threat to national security. He wouldn't mind using the information to nail her coffin shut when the time came, but he would settle for being able to see Hart realize that _he_ had the upper hand, and that she was all she tried to crack up to be.

Gibbs heard water begin to run in the bathroom sink. When he next spoke, he raised his voice so that Ziva would be able to hear him.

"She's involved with Bell."

The water shut off as Ziva poked her head out of the bathroom, a toothbrush stuck between her teeth. "Sheesh wif hoosh bell?" Gibbs grinned at her slurred words, but had no difficulty interpreting them.

"Not _a _bell," he clarified. "Colonel Bell. The bastard who was paid to kidnap Leyla and Amira." He watched Ziva's eyes narrow.

"Hee ish in Meshiko, yesh?" Gibbs shook his head. The toothbrush was removed and her brow furrowed. "_What?"_

"The Mexican authorities released him without prosecuting."

"Which means he bribed them." Gibbs smirked. Ziva was nothing if not astute. "How long have you known?"

"Since the start of the case."

"Damn it, Jethro!" Ziva's tone turned angry. "You cannot keep me in the dark about information like this!"

Gibbs sat up, sensing an argument was imminent. "I didn't keep it from you deliberately," he told her. "I didn't give it much thought, what with the attorney hounding our every move." He eyed her. "You wouldn't have been able to do anything about it anyway," he pointed out.

"That is not the point," she retorted, pointing her toothbrush at him menacingly. "This changes things, Jethro."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You didn't just arrest Bell, Gibbs. You destroyed him. His company went stomach up and his reputation was ruined. He will never be able to do the same kind of business again. And the worst part about it is that when he gets revenge—and he _will_ try, I assure you—he will go for the jugular. He is dirty, Gibbs, and he will play as dirty as he needs to in order to see you as destitute as he is. Or until he sees you dead. Whichever comes first."

Gibbs opened his mouth to contradict her, but the toothbrush jabbed closer to his nose.

"No, Jethro." Her dark eyes were hard, with not a single trace of mirth in them. "You were not there when his men broke into your home. They came in with full tactical gear, without having made proper reconnaissance, and without identifying themselves. If I had not lost my grip on my weapon when the flashbang hit, they would have killed me on sight." She paused, but her heavy gaze never lifted from his, and the scent of her toothpaste continued to creep over his senses. "You need to be careful. And part of being careful is letting your lover, who just happens to be the person most qualified to protect you, know that a very dangerous enemy has been released from a Mexican prison."

At this, Gibbs stood, forcing Ziva to take a step back to avoid allowing her toothbrush to come into contact with his shirt. "Let's get one thing straight—you are not going to be 'the one protecting me'. There is absolutely no way I am going to let you stand in the way of a psychopath just for me."

"Just for you?" Ziva's voice rose in pitch. "There is no _just_ with you, Jethro. And he is not the only crazy one if you think I am going to stand by and wait for Bell to exact revenge."

"I am not going to let you put yourself in harm's way for me, Ziva."

"Do not act like you have a say in this, Jethro. I will do it with or without your permission—" Ziva's voice cut out when Gibbs' hands suddenly reached up and framed her face. His palms cupped her jaw line, as his thumbs rested against her temples, not allowing her to look away as he leaned in towards her. He could feel her stiffen beneath his fingers, but he did not release her, intent on showing her how deeply he felt on the subject.

"I just got you back," he said, his voice low with intensity. "Do not make me risk losing you again." Her eyes widened, but did not waver from his. "Please."

Her gaze finally flicked away at this, and he saw her bite the inside of her lip nervously. But when she met his gaze once more, her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

"Have I not been through enough without being forced to watch you die?" Her tear-strained voice made Gibbs' gut clench painfully. "I have so many nightmares as it is. I do not need to see you bloody and gasping for breath too." Brown eyes searched his when he hesitated to respond. "If something happens to you, and I have not done all I can to protect you… I would _never_ forgive myself." She swallowed thickly, as she looked away ashamedly. "I would not survive it."

A tear rolled down her cheek, only to be caught by the calloused pad of Gibbs' thumb. The touch brought Ziva's eyes back to his, and in them he saw the pain and fears that she refused to voice. There was also shame, shame that she was not as strong as she felt she should be. But Gibbs knew the truth, knew just how strong she truly was, even if she didn't see it. And he knew better than to ask her to dismiss her concerns for his safety.

His eyes closed with a sigh, and his forehead rested against hers. For a long moment, he savored the sensation of her soft flesh against his, and the feel of her pulse thudding under his fingertips. He could feel the tension leave her body as his proximity soothed her. He could smell her spearmint toothpaste, and the fragrance of the special lotion she rubbed into her skin each night. It was not her usual lotion; her usual lotion was fragrance-free. This had been recommended by her doctor—it was known to ease the tightness of fresh scars, allowing the recently knitted skin to stretch more easily.

But beneath both of those fragrances, he could just barely make out the scent that was so distinctly Ziva: flowers and spice. Little by little, she had begun to cook again, mixing up her favorite dishes from the Mediterranean and Israel. She still tended to avoid the harsher flavors of the Middle East, but whether that aversion was a result of her still recovering from being half-starved for months in the desert or that Saleem had reeked of the spices common in his native country, Gibbs didn't know. He could not bring himself to ask, and he decided it didn't really matter in the long run. And she had also brought flowers into the house. Gibbs had been thinking about digging an area for her to have a real garden out in the backyard, so that she would not have to rely solely on the potted plants she used to have in her old apartment.

Finally he pulled away, and his opened once more. His hand came up to brush locks of her curly hair away from her face. Her eyes stayed closed a moment longer, pressing into his touch. But then she was looking up at him, her eyes wide but steadfast. Gibbs knew instantly that she was no more likely to concede the matter than he was.

"There's only one way we can go from here," he said finally. Her brow arched in curiosity.

"And what is that?"

"Well, you're obviously going to be trying to protect me," he pointed out, to which she nodded in affirmation. "And I'm not about to let Bell get you in his crosshairs instead of me… Which means that we're both going to be watching each other like hawks."

"And with both of us on the lookout, Bell will find it very difficult to get either one of us," Ziva finished. "But I think in your case I will also keep an eye on that irritating lawyer. I believe she is just as likely to put a knife in your gut as she is to run you out on a banister."

Gibbs grinned. "Rail. Run me out on a rail."

"That is the exact same thing," Ziva retorted with a roll of her eyes. "But even so, I would like to request that you do not have an interrogation this Mallison character is a part of unless I am in the room with you."

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"Jealous?" Ziva scoffed. She stepped away as she swatted him playfully, and Gibbs could see her distress fading away. "Please. The woman is not even a redhead. Besides," she added as she began to sashay back into the bathroom, "I could break her like a twig." She snapped her fingers, accentuating her point with a sharp crack of air.

She was almost to the bathroom door when Gibbs darted forward and halted her progress by gripping her hips with both hands. She was waiting for him to catch her, it seemed, for she spun around in his arms to hug him fiercely. Her nose pressed into the cotton fabric of his shirt, and his hands shifted to wrap around her more intimately. He was surprised to find that she was almost entirely relaxed, save for the tension in her arms as she clutched him close. In recent months, ever since her rescue, there was a moment of hesitation whenever he embraced her, a split second when Gibbs thought she bolt away from him. None of that was present now, not even for an instant.

It was a welcome realization.

"I love you," she said, her voice the most unguarded he had heard it since her rescue.

"I love you too," he returned softly. He didn't know if she heard the gratitude in his voice, or the raw emotion scratching the back of his throat. But he felt both all too painfully, though the discomfort was replaced by the sweet sensation of nostalgia—he had missed being able to hold her like this, hearing the trust in her voice.

"And Jethro?" Ziva's voice vibrated against the flesh of his shoulder. He _hmmm_ed gently in response, prompting her to continue. She did not hesitate to oblige.

"If she tries to seduce you, I _will_ break her."

* * *

A/N: Yay! New material to work with! Awesomeness... And I am so looking forward to next week. But if they make it too heavy with TIVA stuff, I may spoof it. However, what I really wanted to say in this note is that I have another chapter already in the works. The only thing is, it will be rated M. The story rating will be the same, but if you think mentions of graphic torture is too much, well then, don't read.

Don't worry, I'll put another warning at the top of the next chapter too. But ye have been warned.

And just so you all know, there is a very good chance that I will be unable to post over the summer. Again. But only for ten weeks this time, instead of thirteen. Which means I'll be able to see (and post on, probably) the season finale for NCIS. *shakes head at memory of being forced to miss Semper Fidelis and Aliyah last year* But we'll see if that changes in the weeks to come. But I am definitely hoping I will be gone from June til August. Means more money and prestige for me-- YAY! I wanted to give y'all a heads up, since you've been so great in following my stories.


	33. New Developments

"How many amendments to the Constitution are there?"

Gibbs grinned as he and Ziva walked through the lobby of the Adams hotel. Though he had helped Ziva study for her exams, they had not focused on this particular subject yet. Apparently, this did not mean that Ziva had not learned about them on her own.

He glanced at her briefly as he offered a number, and was only somewhat sidetracked by her unusually stunning appearance. She always dressed well for work, and she had definitely lost the utilitarian style she sported four years ago, but today… Every time he looked at her he was forced to do a double take. There was nothing flashy about her appearance, nothing outright eye-catching, but there was a subtle change that was impossible to ignore.

It had definitely caught the prince's attention, as well as that of Tony's father. Honestly, Gibbs couldn't blame either one of them, but it didn't make it any easier to force himself to _not_ rip them both a new one for their unashamed advances towards the probationary agent. Gibbs' gut burned angrily just thinking about them, but one more look at Ziva's softened countenance sent his insides back into a warm mush.

_Jesus_. Head over heels, his father had said once. Yup. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was head over heels for that woman.

"Twenty-seven," she corrected, pulling his attention back to their conversation while simultaneously blowing his only somewhat-educated guess out of the water.

"Nobody likes a smart ass, David," he retorted.

"Why do I have to study all of this and you do not?"

"I was born here—" Before he could finish answering, he spotted Anthony Dinozzo Sr. sitting in one of the plush lobby chairs, newspaper in hand. The man's presence was not overtly questionable, as he _was_ staying at the hotel, but it was irksome nonetheless. Watching him make suggestive looks at Ziva at the Navy Yard had been bad enough, and seeing Dinozzo Sr. give Ziva an appraising once-over now sent jolts of jealousy through his veins.

It didn't help that Ziva was not as dismissive of Tony's dad as she was of the prince; in fact, she had yet to break eye contact with her partner's father. The smug grin appeared to be for "Tony", but Gibbs figured that there was more than a small chance that it was more for his own benefit. His gaze bounced between the two, taking in the mutual grins and Mr. Dinozzo's obvious appreciation of Ziva's presence.

It was then that Gibbs noticed the gray hair and the self-satisfied grin. The man was silently appraising Ziva's good looks with a practiced eye, compounding Gibbs' jealousy. On the surface, the elder Dinozzo was too familiar for comfort. Older, wizened, understatedly bold when it came to women. Not to mention the multiple divorce rates they shared… Jesus. Gibbs hoped that the fact Mr. Dinozzo shared genetic material with Tony would be enough dissuasion for Ziva—he caught himself. Why would she want a washed up businessman when she had a Marine? With that, he took several deep breaths.

Brushing his insecurities aside, Gibbs left the two of them where they stood and headed towards the elevator. He felt Ziva begin to follow him, but then the elder Dinozzo's hushed voice caught her attention. Gibbs continued on his way, but turned back to look at them when he pressed the button to call the elevator. His eyes narrowed when he saw their interaction, but then the elevator arrived and Ziva was back with him. They were the elevator's only occupants as the doors slid closed in front of them, and as soon as it was in motion he turned to her.

"Did you seriously just _wink_ at him?" he asked incredulously. She regarded him with a long look before she finally answered, her gaze returning to the reflective doors before her.

"Jealousy does not suit you, Gibbs," she said, her voice dismissive of his concern. But his keen ears caught the jest in her tone, and knew that she was merely yanking his chain. He decided to play along.

"Good thing we're running security for the prince," he returned casually. "You'll have plenty of time to make googly eyes at Tony's dad while you're here." He was rewarded with the sight of her eyes scrunching together in disgust, the charade forgotten.

"Ugh, Gibbs." Her nose wrinkled now too. "You did not have to remind me that he is Tony's father. The man is certainly charming, but the fact that the two of them are _related_…" She shuddered theatrically.

Gibbs smirked at her reflection in the doors. "Like son, like father…" he remarked casually. She looked at him, her brows furrowed in confusion. "They both got good taste, I'll give 'em that." When her eyes crinkled at the compliment, he leaned in close. "You look nice today," he said conspiratorially, his voice little more than a suggestive murmur.

"Just nice?" she purred back. He grinned.

"Nice enough that you're making it _very_ hard for me to focus on my job."

She smirked triumphantly. "Then _my_ job is done," she reported smugly, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"Your job is to distract me with your feminine wiles?" he asked. "Don't let Dinozzo hear you say that."

"Which Dinozzo?"

Oooh. Score one for Ziver. Unfortunately, the doors slid open before he had a chance to form a retort. But he did bump her lightly with his elbow as they exited the elevator, silently telling her that the exchange would be continued later. Preferably without the distraction of young princes and old fathers and assassination attempts to get in the way.

Ducky did say this place had some decent steak on the roof… Gibbs swiped his keycard through the reader, allowing his mind to ponder the possibilities. But when he entered the room, all non-work related thoughts slammed to a halt.

"Dinozzo!"

--

"Wow." Ziva's voice was awed as she cast an appreciative gaze across the rooftop. Gibbs grinned, triumphant in his decision to bring her here. He had been hesitant, at first, despite the two glowing recommendations the rooftop grill had received from both Dinozzo's dad and Ducky. He glanced at her, preferring the sight of her graceful form than the sparsely populated dining area.

She had chosen to wear a little black dress he hadn't seen her in before, made the picture of sophistication by the wide belt that encircled her waist and the long sleeves that clung to her arms. The material was solid, but flexible enough to stretch over her tantalizing curves, giving her a look that was part schoolteacher, part socialite. The combination was driving him nuts, to the point where he was actually looking forward to ending the date and taking her home so that he take the dress off her.

He sighed. That wouldn't be happening tonight. Best to get that out of his head right then and there. They hadn't had that sort of intimacy since her rescue. She might oblige him, if he asked, but he was willing to wait until it was on his terms. He refused to pressure her, and surprisingly enough, he wasn't bothered by the indefinite period of celibacy. He had yet to be so enamored that he couldn't control himself. He felt no urge to find the intimacy elsewhere. Instead he cherished the few embraces they did share, and took as much comfort from them that she did.

She was slowly returning to her old state of sure confidence, if her interaction with Mr. Dinozzo and the prince was any indication. And she was now wearing a dress, baring her legs in public for the first time since her return to America. She was absolutely ravishing, and he wasn't the only one in the rooftop restaurant who had noticed. He could spot a minimum of five other men whose eyes had lingered on Ziva, and not one of them was there alone. Strangely enough, Gibbs didn't mind—Ziva's hand remained firmly planted in his, and it was clear she didn't even notice their gazes. Apparently, Gibbs minded more when it seemed other men might actually have a shot with her.

His grin deepened; it was a night of developments for them both.

Once they reached their table, he pulled out her chair, which earned him a broad smile in return. And then he took his place across from her, and his oblique view of the White House and the Washington Monument was eclipsed by the radiance sitting before him. Her hair was soft and curling, framing her chin while accentuating the curve of her neck. She had part of it tucked behind her left ear, but the rest cascaded down her back, much like it had the past week. She looked feminine, so deliciously feminine that it made Gibbs' gut flutter.

It wasn't the first time since her rescue that she had worn her hair down, or that she had dressed less utilitarian. But the other times, the other instances in which she showed her softer side, she had been trying too hard. Those other instances had been her trying to distance herself from the hard Mossad operative she no longer was. But now, this past week, she hadn't been trying to do anything. She had let go of something, and some indiscernible factor in her defenses had fallen away. She had allowed herself to simply _be_. The real woman, the natural woman he fell in love with, was now being allowed to shine, and the effect was staggering.

The part he loved the most, is that he could see the familiar chain that looped around her neck, and disappeared beneath the conservative neckline of her dress. He knew that chain well, as it had been around his neck for eight years straight. It meant that his dogtag was there, hidden beneath her dress, pressed close to her heart.

She let him be the one to turn down the offered house wine, and instead order waters for them both. She was no longer a fan of alcohol, or at least, she was until she told him otherwise. He was still a fan, but he preferred his in a mason jar, not a frilly goblet or glass that would be offered to him here. And the bottom line was: he was happy to remain sober with her.

They settled in, and Gibbs returned his attention to his beautiful partner. In the flickering candlelight, her brown eyes glistened, and Gibbs suddenly realized that they were damp with tears. Concern flooded him, and he leaned over the table towards her.

"Hey," he said softly, "you okay?" His hand covered hers on the pristine white tablecloth. "We can leave if…" He let his voice drift off, rather than risk sounding presumptuous. Six months ago he would have had no problem finishing—the worst that would have happened would have been a chilly evening and a silent car ride home. But now… he never seemed to know what action would trigger which reaction. Sometimes an innocent comment on his part would make her bristle with indignation, or worse, make her angry enough to leave him in the doghouse for a week. Other times she would take it in stride, just as she used to, strong and resilient, able to give as good as she got.

Luckily, the combination of the live string quartet, the crisp night air, and the flickering candlelight shifted things in his favor, for when her gaze turned to him her lips curled into a smile.

"I am fine," she assured him, her fingers tightening around his. "It is just… this place." She nodded towards the illuminated White House and the majestic Washington Monument rising beyond it. "This part of your history… It is beautiful, but it is so often taken for granted. It is on your money, your coins, but not every American gets to see it in person." She gazed over the rail once more. "And it is peaceful here. So very peaceful. Sometimes I forget, with the work we do, and the reports of muggings and burglaries in the local news, but it _is_ peaceful. There are no bombings, no IEDs. There are very few kidnappings, and when there is, it is almost never political." She paused, as if debating whether or not to continue. Gibbs hoped she would, and nearly smiled when she finally did.

"The Senators and the Representatives, they do not go to work aware of the possibility that it might be the very last day they do so. They feel safe." She smiled softly. "And they should." She looked at him, and in the low light of the table's lone candle, it seemed as if she was glowing. "This is probably the safest place in the world." She paused. "At least, it is the safest place I have ever been." She smirked at him, only somewhat abashedly. "But that could simply be a result of the company I keep while I am here."

Gibbs smiled back at her. "I do my best," he quipped. "But I'm glad you don't want to leave. This place is supposed to have the best ribeye in town." But the concern returned when he saw her expression falter the slightest bit. This time, he did not call attention to it. Instead, he waited until she explained it herself.

"I am not in the mood for steak tonight," she revealed finally. She broke eye contact, which was enough to tell Gibbs that she was not being honest. But there was no reason to ruin their evening over it.

"Good thing that's not the only thing they serve, then, isn't it?" His flippant response brought her gaze back to him, and the smile returned. In her eyes he saw gratitude—she knew she had dodged a bullet, and was appreciative. "What else strikes your fancy?" he asked, innocently looking over the menu.

Ziva's brow furrowed. "Strikes my fancy?" she repeated slowly. Her mind raced to try and interpret, but was at a loss. "I do not know what that means."

"It's similar to 'whatever floats your boat'," Gibbs elaborated. She pegged him with a skeptical look.

"Are you suggesting I have water?"

Gibbs snorted a laugh. "No," he told her. He sighed. "I was asking what else looked appetizing."

"Ah," she remarked lightly. Their light-hearted banter continued, and by the time the server came to take their orders, the conversation had turned to other mundane topics. Both leaned towards each other, their voices low in the open night air. Ziva took great pleasure in giving him all the dirty details she had learned about the prince, and he was happy to hear them, as with each little secret the "chauvinistic royal pain in the tush" was knocked down another notch or two.

And she told him of the little things she had noticed about Tony over the course of the case, the debacle with the call girls in the prince's suite notwithstanding. It was obvious the appearance of his father had shaken him, knocked him off his game. Gibbs had noticed it himself, but it still amazed him how much she noticed about her partner, especially when said partner seemed to try and push her away as often as he could.

"You know, Jethro," she said, "you should try talking to him."

"I have, Ziver," he told her gently. "I've been talking to him all week."

"No, Jethro, you have been talking _at_ him. You have been questioning his ability to keep his focus, to remain objective. That is not what he needs."

"Maybe you should do the talking."

She rolled her eyes as her lips curled into a sad smile. "He would not accept it from me," she replied. "Nor should he."

"Ziver…"

"Our partnership is not the same. I am a probie now, not that he ever took me seriously in the first place. But he looks up to you, Gibbs. And believe it or not, you care for him, when his father never truly did. He looks up to you. The last thing he needs is for you to question his abilities. He has enough of that from his father."

"You saying he didn't need a wake-up call?"

"No, I am saying that he could have also used some support. If it had been my father who suddenly appeared at NCIS, my objectivity would have been the last thing on your mind."

"Your situation is slightly different from his, Ziva."

"Is it? Because my father actually gave me more attention than _his_ father did? Because my father is willing to use me and my job for something other than money?" She shook her head. "No, Jethro, it is not so different. If my father came, in person, to NCIS with no warning—"

"You'd be in a safehouse on the other side of the city before he even had a chance to ask for you."

Ziva smirked, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "You would try," she corrected. "But the truth is I would be just as rattled as Tony was. And it would be you who would say something that gives me both comfort and the strength to face him." Her fingers found his. "He needs you to act as a father would," she added gently, "not just as a boss."

Gibbs sighed. He knew she was right; he just didn't want to admit it. Had he been forced into the same situation a year ago, the decision would have been easy. But now… he was still resentful of Dinozzo, and his inability to keep his curiosity to himself that had led to Ziva's departure from NCIS. The senior field agent had done his part in trying to avenge her death, a mission that had turned into her rescue, but neither negated the fact that had it not been for him and his damned jealousy, she never would have been there in the first place.

"I think I can manage saying _something_ to him," he teased lightly. She cocked her head, pursing her lips slightly as she silently scolded him. His displeasure with Tony was not a secret from her, though Gibbs doubted she was aware of just how much she factored into it. "Fine. I'll play the reluctant father figure. But you know that means he's going to have to come by the house at some point."

Ziva smiled. "Just tell me when, and I think I can manage a spa night with Abby." She smirked. "But _you_ get to go around the house and hide anything that could clue Tony in to my current residential status."

"Only if I get to grill steak," he negotiated.

"Why would I care if--?" Ziva froze, then rolled her eyes as she realized what he meant. "Jethro, if you like grilling steak over an open fire, why do you insist on doing it indoors? Why do you not simply go and cook it over a _real_ fire? Go camp out in the middle of the woods somewhere. At least then you would not make the house smell like steak for two weeks."

"Ah, but you like the smell of steak…"

She grinned, unable to deny his claim. "Speaking of which," Ziva said, nodding to something behind him. Gibbs turned to look and found that his ribeye and her pan-seared salmon pasta dish were on their way to the table. When he had cut into his fragrant steak, he offered the first bite to Ziva.

The offering took her by surprise, and she froze for a split second before she turned it down with a shake of her head. But when he refused to take no for answer, she finally accepted the succulent morsel. He watched as she moved it around in her mouth, but her movements were awkward, as if she didn't know exactly what to do with it. Finally, her throat worked forcefully, and it was clear to him that she had swallowed the bite without properly chewing it.

"It is good," she said, her voice strong despite his curious gaze. "But yours is better."

Gibbs allowed her dismissal, though he knew she was aware of his attention on her. Instead, he took a bite of his own. "Oh," he said around a mouthful of meat, his mumbled voice making her smile. "I don't know… this is a _very_ close second." He swallowed. "How's your fish?" Her eyes crinkled merrily.

"Perfect," she replied. There was something dark in her gaze, some shadow that threatened the happiness he saw, but whatever it was remained at bay. It remained merely a shadow, as if she were determined to not let it become anything more. She wanted this night to be about them, not about whatever was haunting her. And Gibbs was willing to let the odd quirks go, for now, in order to give her that. But he filed it away for later, to ask her about it when the time was right.

"This place is beautiful," she continued, gazing out over the DC skyline. He tried to take in the sight as well, but his eyes were inevitably drawn back to Ziva. God help him, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her.

"Yeah," he said softly. "But it wouldn't mean anything without you here."

His words took her aback for a moment, as she hesitated before looking at him once more. This time, the sadness had grown, and for a split second, Gibbs thought he saw guilt. But then she smiled, her teeth pearly-white in the shadows of the night around them.

"You know that I would not be here, if not for you, yes?" Her voice was questioning, her query honest, as if he could actually forget how close he came to losing her for good. But she was wrong—she didn't survive because of him. She survived on her own. It was all her; every amazing bit of her helped her through the worst experience anyone could ever imagine. Even now, in the relative safety of DC, his aid was minimal when it came to helping her move past it. She was progressing better than anyone could have hoped, but it was her strength, her will to survive, that was healing her. Not him.

But he'd told her that already, time and time again. She didn't believe it, for some reason she had not divulged to him, and he knew that hearing it again wouldn't make her see differently.

"I'd it all again, and more, if it meant you would be safe." They'd had this conversation before too. Almost three weeks ago, when they discovered Colonel Bell was released from Mexican prison. He told her every chance he could that she was too special to him to risk her life again, to risk losing her, but that didn't seem to stick either. This instance was no different.

"Do not say that," she said, her voice soft. "Please."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Ziva. Don't ask me to."

"I am not asking you to." Her voice hardened. "But do not tell me that you would sacrifice everything for me. I am not—"

"And don't say you're not worth it," Gibbs interrupted. "You are."

"I have done many things, Jethro. Things I have not told you about. I may not go searching for death anymore, it may not be in my heart like it was, but I will not run from it either. I will not fight it."

Her words struck him to the core. He searched for any flicker in her gaze, any indication that she doubted her own words. But he did not find it. She was steadfast, and deathly honest with him. He closed his eyes, attempting to keep himself under control. Incredibly enough, he felt like laughing—if she thought telling him that was going to make him not worry about her anymore, then she was grossly mistaken. If anything, he would be looking out for her even more than he already was. But there was no way in hell he would be telling her that right now.

"I'm not even going to begin to list all of the things that are wrong about what you just said," he started, his voice careful. "This is not the place to discuss it." He saw a glimmer of relief flicker in her eyes. "Tonight is going to be just us, no existentialism, no angst, no nothing. Just us, a beautiful view, and good food, okay?" He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "The rest can come later." Her fingers return the caress as her thumb traces soft circles on the back of his hand. "Deal?"

Her lips curl into a conciliatory smile. "Deal." Gibbs can see the apology that is waiting on her lips, for nearly ruining the mood of the evening, but it is never voiced. He had trained her well, it seemed, and the error was not grievous enough to warrant an apology from her. She hasn't apologized once since that day in the interrogation room, when Ben-Gidon had tried to apologize to her. They had long had an agreement that the apology rule did not apply to the two of them, between the two of them. And there were times when he knew she wanted to, like when the night terrors claimed her, or when she was on the verge of a flashback in a public place, and it is only his gentle touch and soothing words that keeps her in reality. But besides the whispered _sorry_s she uttered when she crawled back into bed after a nightmare—of which he is certain she is not even conscious of—she had yet to actually say it, as if she believed herself a hypocrite if she ever did tell him.

"I will say one thing though," Gibbs said. "You seemed to have fun with this case."

She snorted. "Fun? Only if you consider protecting a manipulative, chauvinistic—"

"Pain in the tush?"

"Yes, that too." She grinned. "If you consider protecting a man like that_ fun_, then yes. I did have fun." She let out a sign of frustration, as her free hand came up to cover her eyes. "It did not help that he happened to have royal blood in his veins," she moaned. "As if that made him God's gift to women."

"Like I said. He's not used to anyone telling him no, let alone a beautiful woman who could kick his ass ten times over if he tried to force anything."

"I could see you were just scratching to tell him to keep his eyes to himself," she remarked casually.

"Itching," he corrected. "Yes, I was just itching to break his regal nose."

"And Mr. Dinozzo, too," she prodded.

"Yes, and _Tony_ too," he poked right back. "I noticed that your rapport with the Dinozzos seems to span multiple generations."

Her eyes widened in indignation, even as a guilty smirk crossed her lips. "You are terrible! I will have you know I was simply being friendly."

"Friendly, my ass."

The familiar banter continued throughout the meal, and no more thought wass given to Ziva's strange behavior, or Gibbs' admission of selfless fealty. The night passed peacefully, and ended with them curling up on his couch, she with her shoes kicked off and he with a single arm draped unassumingly over her shoulders. It was not as intimate as that day in the snow, or the night he gave her his dogtag, but they were seated close enough that he could feel the heat of her body slowly warming him. It was a few minutes before the fire began to work its magic, and their combined body heat was enough to stave off the chill of the winter air that crept through the large pane of his living room window.

Eventually they shared a bed, separated by an invisible boundary he hadn't yet dared to cross. But there were no nightmares that night, nor the night after. It was a welcome respite, and they took full advantage of their peaceful weekend. By the time Monday rolled around, they were both well rested and in good spirits, ready to face whatever the world might throw at them. They were lucky as no new case presented itself, and they were allowed to finish their paperwork and look over some old case files in the quiet afternoon.

Their lunch hour came none too soon, however, after they realized that some LEOs had nearly destroyed one of the casefiles. The box was a mess, with papers unbound and crammed into the box with no discernable order. Just when they thought their heads were about to explode, Gibbs allowed them to start their break. Dinozzo and McGee were promptly sent out for food. They went without a fuss, after being told that since they were the ones going out, they could choose what they wanted to get. Gibbs and Ziva both stayed behind, and in a moment of genius, Ziva suggested they take over one of the conference rooms to have more space in which to sort through the disordered paper trail.

Gibbs agreed, and they spent the next half hour transferring the papers to the large wooden conference table. They had even begun to sort the papers into general piles—starting points, essentially—so that it would be easier to pick up again after lunch. They conversed lightly as they returned to the squad room, but upon rounding behind the empty cubicle attached to their bullpen, an unfamiliar female voice greeted their ears.

Or rather, it was unfamiliar to Gibbs. Ziva, on the other hand, froze. When Gibbs turned back to see why she was no longer beside him, he found an expression of mixed confusion and disbelief had washed over her features. She paled slightly, and he stepped forward, ready to catch her if she collapsed. But she remained her feet, and Gibbs took a moment to listen.

He heard a melodic voice drifting across the squad bay, countered by Dinozzo's smooth flirtations. He tuned in just in time to realize that Tony didn't know why the woman was there any more than they did.

"You sure I can't help you, ma'am?" Dinozzo said, his voice uncharacteristically chivalrous.

"If you call me ma'am one more time it will be _you_ who needs the helping, Agent Dinozzo." Gibbs heard the unfamiliar female voice pause. When she next spoke a moment later, she sounded amused, but condescendingly so. "Agent Dinozzo… ah, yes, I remember you now."

"You do?" Shock was evident in the senior field agent's tone, which was tinged with the slightest bit of apprehension.

"Yes." The woman was now blunt. "_Lose this number or lose your life_, yes? Original, but not nearly as threatening as I am sure you intended to be—"

Finally, Ziva seemed to break out of her stupor, and she dashed the last couple of steps until she froze once more in full view of the bullpen. Gibbs followed, and found her staring at their guest in disbelief. Her brown eyes were wide, her brows arched in shock as she stared at a slim brown haired woman that was leaning casually against Dinozzo's desk.

When the woman shifted slightly, they were afforded a glimpse of her profile, and the sight of it made Ziva gasp softly. The sound caught the attention of the mysterious woman, despite her preoccupation with Dinozzo. She turned to face them, and Gibbs felt Ziva stiffen against him from where he stood closely behind her.

"Aunt Nettie?!"

* * *

A/N: hehehe... I love this. But you know what I love more? All the Zibbs scenes that was in _Flesh and Blood_ this week. Was I the only one who saw it? Maybe. Am I the only one writing fanfiction on it? Most likely. I'm a dork! Anywho... I like this chapter because a) it addresses some of the awesome Zibbs scenes I spotted, and it allowed for some creativity on the side.

I know I said that I would be writing another chapter, one that deals with torture, rated M, all that. Well, that is still in the works. The thing is, I couldn't find a good lead-in. So this chapter comes first, and I _create_ the perfect lead in! Got the idea today to introduce Aunt Nettie. She's mentioned all of once on the show, and I figure they are never going to use her in-depth on the show, so I thought it would be a-ok to introduce her into something noncanon without heavy repercussions and backtracking later. Disclaimer: character is not mine, but for all I know the personality is. For all I know TPTB will introduce her next week as a female version of Eli David. Who knows?

Just FYI, I'm a very bad girl, and I getting ideas for new stories, when I already have multiple unfinished stories. See, my mind was wandering today, I asked myself, what would happen if NCIS wandered onto say, Criminal Minds. Or CSI. Or Bones. (I know exactly what would happen if it wandered onto CSI... CSI would cease to suck! I speak from the position of a die-hard fan of the first six-seven seasons... I mean, SERIOUS fan. And now I can't stand to watch it. So sad... anyhoo.) Bottom line is, my head is getting crowded again. I also considered creating a sort of stand-alone series which can be oneshot or multi-chap, called Soulmates, which kinda looks into various Zibbs incarnations throughout history. (It started with me thinking about Ziva as an east-european cabdriver in a past life-- don't ask.) I think that might come first, before the crossover stuff, if that stuff has any interest in the fanbase.

So? Interested in crossovers and new ideas? I figure I should ask you all, as it is you guys who are waiting for updates on a gazillion different stories. Also, FYI, I have a chapter of SM (the M-rated chap) and the next chapter of Senseless in the works. I figured after that I would go back to Betrayal and Apocalypse. So, that's the plan for this semester. Along with PTing my butt off and applying to USMC OCS. OORAH!

Hope this chapter will tide you over until all the other stuff gets posted!


	34. New Developments Pt 2

Gibbs entire body went rigid in the space of a microsecond. The woman was now facing both of them, and even Gibbs could see the distinct resemblance. She was older than Ziva, by as much as twenty years, but her eyes seemed to hold a smile that gave her an aura of youth. Her skin was dark, a deeper shade than Ziva's complexion, but the thick mane of hair was nearly identical to her niece's. The perfectly coiffed hair laying against her shoulders was a brown so dark that it seemed nearly black in the fluorescent lights of the squadroom. Her eyes were a deep mahogany, a shade he had only seen in one other person: the young woman standing beside him.

Ziva had mentioned her aunt to him once before years ago, before they were even dating. She hadn't said much, but at the time it had seemed to Gibbs that Ziva trusted the woman. There had been none of the tenseness that had crept into her whenever she had mentioned the rest of her family—instead she was relaxed, with a smile lingering on the corner of her lips, as if she had been recalling a fond memory.

But now… Ziva was stiff, and a single glance told Gibbs that the openness of the weekend had vanished, replaced by a careful guardedness that set Gibbs' hackles on edge.

"Zivaleh!" The woman, Nettie, moved forward, arms outstretched for an embrace, but Gibbs moved in front of Ziva protectively. Until he knew exactly why someone from Ziva's family was in DC, he wasn't taking any chances. He meant what he had said to Ben-Gidon—she was off-limits.

Nettie stopped before she ran into Gibbs, keeping a good arm's reach away from him. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance, even as her mouth opened to chastise him.

"And you must be Special Agent Gibbs," she remarked drily, clearly unimpressed. Gibbs noted her steady stance, her loose fists hanging by her sides. She was no stranger to combat, that much was obvious.

"You know who we are," Gibbs said, his voice dropping to a threatening timbre. "How about you tell us who you are?"

"Ninette Mizrachi," Ziva supplied as she stepped around Gibbs, her hand trailing against his back in a silent message to stand down. But then the touch ended abruptly, as if her fingers had suddenly burned, and it was then Gibbs realized that she did not trust this woman. Even the small touch would be enough to arouse her aunt's suspicion, and she was clearly uncomfortable with that possibility. So instead of standing down, Gibbs simply stood by, unwilling to force Ziva to handle this alone. Ziva regarded the woman with a wary gaze, her eyes hard and unforgiving.

"I am not going back," she declared, getting straight to the point. There was no use beating about the bush, and Gibbs knew the last thing she wanted was to play games. To his surprise, however, the stranger, Ninette Mizrachi, merely rolled her eyes.

"Please, Zivaleh, do not insult me by thinking I am here on behalf of that miserable old man you call a father."

Every single eyebrow in the MCRT bullpen shot sky-high. The woman's voice was heavily accented, even more so than Ziva's had been when she first came to NCIS, but it did not disguise the obvious contempt she had for Eli David. Surprise kept Gibbs from speaking, but he couldn't help but notice the small grin that slowly spread over Ziva's features.

"Ziva?" he asked carefully, probing the waters before he continued. Her head turned towards him, but her now-twinkling eyes remained glued to her aunt.

"Nettie is my mother's sister," she explained, her tone considerably warmer than it had been mere moments ago.

"I told Rebekah that the man was a shmuck, but did she believe me?" the woman remarked. "Of course not, who would listen to a sister five years younger? Sometimes I think she did it just to spite me." Her tone was easy, too easy, and Gibbs sensed that it was a cover. A cover for what, he didn't know. He could only hope that it was simply a matter of her personality not fitting the stereotype of a David, and not that she was in fact acting as an agent for her brother-in-law. Either way, it only served to prove that nothing about Ziva's family was as simple as it seemed.

Gibbs was ready to grill the woman, to interrogate her until the she told him exactly what her angle was. But before he had a chance to get started, he noticed the shocked and curious stares of Dinozzo and McGee. McGee looked nervous, as if wary of how the situation could unfold, while Tony watched with the rapt amusement of a man watching a train wreck in slow motion. Gibbs turned to whisper in Ziva's ear.

"Let's take this to the empty conference room," he said softly. She looked at him in curiosity.

"You wish to come too?" she asked just as quietly.

He gave her a cynical grin. "No way in hell I'm leaving you alone with her." For a moment, Ziva looked as if she might protest his distrust, but then her gaze hardened. He knew that deep down, she was not quite ready to trust her aunt any more than he was, no matter how friendly she appeared to be. She nodded, and beckoned to Nettie with a silent nod of her head.

The woman obliged her without a fuss, and Ziva led the way back to the conference room. Gibbs moved to follow, but turned back when he saw Tony and Tim about to join them.

"You two stay here," he ordered firmly.

"But Boss," Tony protested, his voicing immediately turning into a whine. Gibbs stepped in close, and the senior field agent fell silent at his sudden proximity.

"Anyone else shows up," Gibbs said in a low voice, "you stall them. Indefinitely." His eyebrow arched meaningfully, and Dinozzo immediately caught on.

"Sure thing boss," he said confidently. "Leave it to me—well, us," he added, glancing at McGee.

Gibbs looked at the both of them for a long moment, and then turned on his heel. He strode swiftly to the conference room, and found the door waiting open for him. As he entered, he discovered Ziva and the woman sharing an embrace. He watched them for a moment, and noticed that Ziva was stiff, even as her arms wrapped around the middle-aged woman.

He shut the door with an audible snap, giving Ziva a chance to pull away before he started in on the woman.

"You wanna tell us exactly why you're here?" he asked, his voice hard. The woman grinned before sending a wink in Ziva's direction.

"You should hold on to this one, Zivaleh," she said. Ziva's brow furrowed in concern, but Gibbs beat her to the punch.

"And while you're at it," he continued, "you can go ahead and tell us exactly how much surveillance you've been doing on _Agent_ David."

"I have not done any independent surveillance on Ziva, Agent Gibbs," Nettie said simply, unruffled by Gibbs' gruff tone. "I have merely read the reports that Mossad already has on your team…the reports that Ziva compiled before she came to work with you."

"You mean the dossiers for Ari."

"Yes, Agent Gibbs. I have nothing to gain from spying directly on Ziva like my brother-in-law has done."

"Then why are you here?"

"More importantly," Ziva added, speaking up for the first time since Gibbs entered the room, "why now?"

At this, the aloof pretense disappeared from the woman's countenance, only to be replaced by raw, honest concern. A softened gaze looked at Ziva in both sympathy and understanding.

"I heard about what had happened." Her voice was now deeper, melodic with undisguised warmth. It took Gibbs by surprise, but if either woman noticed, they gave no indication. "I returned to Tel Aviv a few days ago and heard first that you were dead, and then that you had resigned from Mossad."

"My decision was not made lightly, and it is permanent," Ziva stated, wary once more. "I am applying for American citizenship, and as soon as I pass the test, I will be an NCIS Special Agent." She looked her aunt in the eye, as if daring her to disapprove. "I will not be returning to Mossad."

"Again, Ziva, you are acting as if I wish you to." The woman's voice was still soft. "I am happy for you."

Ziva blinked. "You are?"

"Of course I am. Not many have the chutzpah to leave Mossad, especially none with so many ties to the agency. I am proud you have finally come to your senses."

"Her senses?" Gibbs interrupted. "You're not Mossad yourself?"

"Of course I am, Agent Gibbs. At least I was until I was no longer useful in the field."

"Nettie lost the vision in her right eye almost ten years ago," Ziva told him. "Since then, my father has not sent her out in the field, and she is no good at a desk."

"No good?" Nettie scoffed. "I am plenty good… They are simply not _mensch _enough to try chaining me to a desk."

"She is quite loud when she is displeased," Ziva supplied once more, turning to look at Gibbs directly. "She means they would have benched her had they been willing to put up with her antics in the office. They felt it easier to simply allow her to retire."

"I used to think I was the only one in that god forsaken place that was able to tell Eli exactly where he can shove his self-serving orders." Her weathered features curled into a grin as she glanced at Ziva. "Now I know that I am not."

"I did not rebel against my father, Nettie," Ziva told her softly.

"No, he sent you to die." Ziva froze, taken aback by her aunt's astute observation. "Yes," Nettie continued, "I know what happened. And no, your father has not made it public knowledge."

"Why not?" Gibbs asked.

"Because Ziva is well-known asset. She is the very best in the field, and anyone she has worked with will tell you that. If it was known that Director David was so careless with even his best assets, he would lose the loyalty of many operatives, and that is something he cannot afford." The woman paused, then looked sidelong at her niece. "If Eli was ever deposed from his position, it is entirely likely that Ziva would be selected to replace him."

"What?" Ziva's eyes widened. "No. I do not have as many contacts, or the experience…"

"You have more contacts than your father has, and in more countries. They are not as high profile, but they are no less meaningful. And the only experience you lack is in politics, which many in Mossad's higher ranks would see as a boon. You would get the job done, but you would not lose sight of the foot soldiers who lay their lives on the line."

Ziva paused, her expression blank. After a long moment, she glanced at Gibbs, and then back at her aunt. "Does he think me a threat?" She did not need to specify who _he _was.

At this, it was Nettie's turn to pause. She sighed. "I do not know." She regarded Ziva with a cool gaze. "I know that he has not issued a hit on you, which means something."

"He sent Ben-Gidon to burn her," Gibbs pointed out, his voice harsh and angry once more.

"That is where you are mistaken, Agent Gibbs. Ben-Gidon was sent to retrieve Ziva. He was to use whatever diplomatic means necessary, but his efforts were countered by the quick thinking of you and your team." She smiled softly. "Which is something for which I must thank you, Agent Gibbs."

"I was doing my job," he said simply.

"If Ziva had been returned to Israel, she would have been in danger, even if Eli did not seek to punish her. And it is my belief that he did _not_ want to reprimand her."

"How do you know, Nettie?" Ziva asked. Her voice was small, but then she shook her head, as if brushing off the momentary weakness. "No. You cannot say something like that, Nettie. You do not know what he…" Her voice trailed off. What _did_ he do? Send her to die? Sacrifice her life by sending her in with no backup, after over a year of non-practice? She had never before voiced it out loud, and now that she was on the verge of doing so, it sounded so weak, so pathetic, that she hesitated.

"I do know, Zivaleh," Nettie offered. Her tone was gentle, reassuring and careful at the same time. "I had an acquaintance hack into the records of your mission, when I learned of the rumors floating around Israel. Declared dead, but then being alive in America? It reeked of Eli's doing, so I did some digging. The records have some missing details, but knowing my sister's husband, I could guess what had happened." She took a step closer to Ziva, and her hand came up to touch the skin of her niece's wrist comfortingly.

"I know there was a transmission from Ben-Gidon from the coast of Somalia," she continued. "I know that Avi died in transit, and that Ben-Gidon and your third comrade were injured. And then I saw that you had been reported dead as well. I knew then what your father had done." Ziva looked at her, her eyes filled with unspoken hurt. "It was not difficult to do so, considering that he has done it your entire life."

"Oh?" It was all Ziva could come up with, her voice husky with restrained emotion.

"He put the work ahead of the family. Had he been a decent father, he would have gone out of his way to ensure you did _not_ proceed with the mission. But, Zivaleh…" She paused, attempting to catch her niece's eye, but Ziva refused to oblige her. Her gaze remained firmly planted on the conference table. "I do not think he sent you to die."

"Then what the hell _would_ you call it?" Gibbs spat in a threatening growl.

"I am not saying what he did was right, Agent Gibbs. But I do think he believed Ziva would be able to complete the mission. His confidence in her abilities led him astray. His priorities were skewed, that much is certain, but he wanted you to succeed. He honestly believed you would."

"One woman against an entire terrorist camp with no backup?" Gibbs couldn't believe his ears. "And you're telling me it's _her_ fault she was overpowered?"

"On the contrary." Nettie regarded him, undaunted. "Agent Gibbs, I understand you care for my niece, but you are not helping by attempting to put words in my mouth."

"Actually, Nettie," Ziva piped up. "He is right. That _is_ what you are making it sound like." When Nettie opened her mouth to protest, a slender hand was raised to silence her. "I do not care why he did what he did. All that matters is that it did. The damage is done. And I am doing my best to work past it." She sighed. "If you did not come here to defend my father's actions, or to persuade me to return to Israel… why _are _you here?"

"I am here for _you_, Zivaleh."

"You should not have come then." Ziva's tone hardened. "I am well supported here, and you risk too much by coming yourself."

"No one in Israel knows of my visit," Nettie tried to assure her. But it was clear even to Gibbs that Ziva would not have any of it. Finally, Nettie turned to him. "Agent Gibbs, could I have a moment alone with my niece?"

Gibbs hesitated, ready to refuse, but he caught Ziva's brief gaze. He saw confusion and bewilderment in her eyes, as well as hesitation, but lying beneath it all was the desire to understand. It was then that Gibbs realized that perhaps it was this Ninette Mizrachi who would be able to give Ziva the help she needed. There was only so much he could do on his own, and she obviously needed more than he could offer.

With a brisk nod, he turned and left the conference room to linger outside the doorway. He closed the door only most of the way—enough to give them privacy, but also allowing him to better hear any sounds of distress from Ziva. It was only a few moments before Ninette's soft voice traveled through the doorway. She immediately lapsed into Hebrew, and her words came too quickly for Gibbs to even begin to try and understand them.

"Zivaleh," Ninette started, "you are not well." Ziva refused to meet her gaze. "You have lost weight, and you are pale. Too pale, for one who loves the sun so much." She sighed. "And I know you too well to believe that you have told Agent Gibbs everything he should know."

"He does not need to know everything," Ziva said. "He knows as much as he needs to."

"That is an outright lie and you know it. He is a good man, and I can see he wants to help you."

"You do not know as much as you like to think you do, Nettie." She glared at her aunt. "And I would like to keep it that way. The less you know, the less my father can use against me later."

"You must be even worse off than I suspected if you think I am going to tell your bastard father a damned thing." Ninette returned fire with fire. "I would do nothing to bring hardship on you and your team. Agent Gibbs especially—he is much more enjoyable than that Dinozzo character out in the workplace, yes?"

"I like to think so," Ziva admitted, unable to resist the contagious twinkle in her aunt's eye. But then her expression turned serious once more. "I do not want to bring hardship upon him either. That is why I do not intend to tell him anything more about my capture than he already does."

"Keeping secrets will destroy you, Zivaleh. He needs to hear it as much as you need to give voice to your nightmares." A calloused hand came up to stroke Ziva's cheek gently. "He wants to help you. And you should let him."

"I cannot, Nettie." Ziva's voice was suddenly small, timid and afraid. "I cannot risk—" Her tongue darted out nervously to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "I cannot lose his trust, Nettie. He is the only person left who truly cares about me. I do not think I would be able to survive without his help. And if I told him—" She paused. "No," she declared. "He knows all he needs to."

"You have never in your entire life been a coward Zivaleh. Do not start now."

"I am no longer who I used to be, Nettie. That is why I cannot go back."

"I am not naïve. I said I read the reports of your capture. I read the intel that led your team to the camp, the data that gave us insight into who Saleem Ulman was." Ziva stiffened, and then dropped her gaze to the polished surface of the conference table. "He was a monster," Nettie continued. "And I know you did not escape unscathed. But he did not kill you. You survived, and now you need to heal. But you cannot do it on your own."

"Nettie…" Months of fear, anguish, and uncertainty all came to the forefront, pouring out of Ziva's soul like a broken dam. She managed to keep her tears in check, but her voice trembled as much as her hands did. Nettie responded immediately, wrapping her arms around her niece in a fierce hug. The contact was firm, but not suffocating, as if she knew exactly what it was that the younger woman needed.

"If you wait too long to tell him," the older woman whispered softly in their native tongue, "you _will_ lose him." Her hands drew soft circles over Ziva's back. "And I know you do not want that to happen."

Ziva drew away, her expression guarded once more. "You know?"

"Of course I do," Nettie replied. "Did you really think I would not notice the sparks between you two?"

"Does Tel Aviv know?" Ziva's tone was tense, as if everything that mattered rested on her aunt's response. And it did. If her father knew of her relationship with Gibbs, he would use the information to destroy everything she cared about. The idea terrified Ziva, but she waited with bated breath for the answer, trying to keep herself from jumping to conclusions.

"No." Nettie's reply was short and to the point. "No one knows."

"Except you."

"Except me," she agreed. "But I came to the conclusion on my own, because I know you too well. I knew there was something there the moment I read that he killed Ari Haswari."

"Nettie, you know that he did not kill—"

"Of course I do, Zivaleh. But Agent Gibbs was willing to assume responsibility for it." A grin curled the older woman's lips. "It is a rare man who would do that for a stranger." Her hand came up to cup Ziva's cheek. "The only question I had was whether or not you would be wise enough to accept what was offered you." She grinned. "You Davids do tend to be more stubborn than is good for you. But it seems you have surpassed my expectations." She paused. "Do you love him, Ziva?"

A silent moment passed between the two women, with one waiting patiently while the other hesitated. Nettie could see the wheels turning in Ziva's mind. To admit her feelings for Gibbs would be a huge risk to Ziva, especially to admit them to her aunt. Nettie knew her reputation as a chatterbox, and she suspected Ziva was weighing the likelihood of her trying to exploit that aspect of her personality. But Nettie had never been a victim of Eli's machinations. Her dislike for her deceased sister's husband allowed her to remain objective, and see through the wool he had tried to pull over her eyes on occasion.

But before Ziva could come to a decision, Nettie spoke once more.

"I can see in your eyes that you hesitate because you do not quite trust me, Zivaleh, not because you doubt your feelings for him." She smiled softly. "That is all the answer I need."

Ziva looked up at her, her relief evident. Nettie was surprised by the level of openness that had come over her niece. It had been a long time since they had spoken in person, and the last time they had done so, the young woman had been deeply entrenched within the realm of Mossad, where emotion was frowned upon. Ziva had been only too willing to box herself up, to rely on her instincts and her wit instead of her feelings to survive.

She had seen so much hardship, so much pain, even before the debacle in the desert. Nettie had tried to be there for her niece, the only one left of her sister's family, but after Tali's death, the younger woman had been all but unreachable. It had nearly killed Nettie to see the young girl in so much anguish, with only an absent father to rely on, but it was not until months later that Ziva had allowed Nettie back in her life.

Seeing her now, so vulnerable but so strong at the same time, Ziva seemed more like how she used to be, before being forced to live without her mother, her sister, and later her brother. And Nettie figured that the change in her niece's demeanor had been a direct result of her life, and her new family, here in America. She supposed that to her teammates, she was still unreadable, but Nettie could spot the little subtleties, the little changes that spoke volumes.

"I am so proud of you, Ziva," she said finally, feeling the tears threatening to rise to the surface. "And I know your mother and your sister would be too." Ziva looked away, and Nettie could see the doubt in her eyes. "You have a chance to live your life now, Zivaleh. That is all they ever wanted for you."

For a long moment, Ziva did not react. Her expression was dark, no doubt recalling the nightmares that had been the deaths of her mother and sister, one to illness and the other to hatred. Nettie wondered if she was thinking of how she would never again be able to visit their graves, so long as her father remained the stubborn bastard he was. But then Ziva's lips pressed together before they parted in a barely-there smile.

"Thank you, Nettie."

Nettie nodded once in return. She could see there was something else on the younger woman's mind, but before she could ask what it was, Ziva spoke again.

"I do not believe what you say about my father," she started, her voice dark. "Everything about what happened was wrong, Nettie. Sometimes I can barely make sense of it myself. But the question I keep asking myself is how did Saleem know that I was attached to NCIS?" Nettie froze, but Ziva didn't notice.

"Why did they want to know about NCIS, and not Mossad?"

Before Nettie could answer, Ziva turned and slipped out of the room. Nettie let her go, too shocked by the revelation to even think of following her. She hadn't known—how could she have? The files didn't reveal the details of her capture, though she had been in enough tough spots to guess what had happened. Interrogation was inevitable, but with Ziva's training, it would have taken them weeks to even discover who she worked for. But for them to already have questions, specifically for Ziva and her knowledge of NCIS… This could mean trouble. Deep trouble. More trouble either woman had ever encountered before.

Right then and there, Nettie decided that she would be leaving the country the next day. She needed to return to Tel Aviv, and learn all she could about Ulman and his cell. She needed to know how he had known what he had, and who he had gotten the information from. It was clear that Ziva suspected her father, and if she was correct in her suspicions… Nettie didn't even want to consider the outcome.

She was startled from her reverie by the sound of the door opening again, only this time it was Gibbs who entered. She turned to face him, hiding all evidence of her sudden doubt from his keen gaze. It quickly became clear that he no longer was as wary of her as he had been ten minutes ago, and it was obvious he wanted answers.

"Do you want to help her, Agent Gibbs?" Nettie asked in English before he could speak, once more getting straight to the point.

"Yes." His tone was just as blunt. There would be no politics, no games— only truth.

Nettie nodded. "She is going to need you, more than she wants to admit. But she fears you as well." She saw his eyes harden.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Not in so many words," she replied. "She relies on you a great deal, something she has never before allowed herself to fall victim to. Ziva doubts herself, and she believes that if you know certain things, you will doubt her as well. And the only thing that is holding her together is your support."

"She knows I'm not going to leave her."

"I am sure you have told her that." She gave him a wry smile. "But when have you ever known her to accept anything that is said at face value?" His gaze drifted for a moment, and Nettie knew she had struck a chord in him.

"What can I do?" he asked. This time, it was Nettie's turn to be surprised. But she recovered quickly.

"Listen, when she is ready to talk. Do not tell her she is being foolish, or that her fears are unfounded. Try to understand, but if you cannot, then simply accept. Be there. Love her." She looked him in the eye. "There is nothing else you can do."

Gibbs nodded silently, his expression not shifting from its seriousness. As she gazed at him, Nettie could not help but notice how much honest concern this American had for her niece. It was obvious that he cared for her, and now that he was reassured that what little he could do would be enough to help Ziva, a new determination appeared in his striking blue eyes.

Strangely enough, Nettie approved of this man. Not that Ziva would listen to her if she did not, but it comforted Nettie that he passed muster. He was strong and silent, much like Ziva herself, and from what Nettie knew of his past, they both shared the loss of a family ripped from their lives. The age difference barely crossed Nettie's mind, and when it did, it was only because the irony of the situation nearly made her laugh.

This was a man Nettie would have flirted with, under different circumstances, as he was only slightly older than herself. In fact, the only thing that kept her from leveling her sights on him now was the obvious attraction he shared with her niece. It figured: such a rare specimen of the male gender was already taken—by such a young woman, no less.

Finally, she gave a heavy sigh. Her work here was done, and now she had to arrange a flight back to Tel Aviv. She had hoped to stay at least a week, to ensure Ziva was well taken care of, but now that she had witnessed first-hand the tenderness this former Marine had for her niece, that worry had been all but erased. Now she had much more pressing concern—the matter of how Saleem Ulman had discovered Ziva's involvement with NCIS.

"I am leaving you both to your duties, Agent Gibbs," she stated bluntly. Her tone softened as she continued. "But I would like to take Ziva out for dinner before I leave for Israel tomorrow morning."

Gibbs nodded. "I'll make sure she gets off in time," he told her.

"Toda." Nettie crossed to the door of the conference, but paused, her hand resting on the metal handle. She turned back to look at the taller American. Her expression was serious, the softness she had exhibited towards Ziva gone in a flash. When she spoke, her voice was hard as flint.

"If you break her heart, Leroy Jethro Gibbs…" Mahogany eyes locked on cool blue. "You will not live to see the next sunrise."

At this, the man's lips curled in a hint of a grin, his gaze brightening ever so slightly. He nodded.

"I'll hold you to that," he responded easily. He lifted his chin in an amicable gesture. "Shalom, Ninette Mizrachi."

"Nettie," she corrected firmly. Now it was the Israeli's turn to smirk. "I have always hated _Ninette_."


	35. New Developments Pt 3

The front door opened, letting in a chill winter breeze that Gibbs immediately felt from his position on the couch. He took a sip of his relatively warm coffee to counter it, and let the newspaper that was in his other hand drop slightly as he turned to see Ziva glide over the threshold. Her cheeks and nose were rosy from the cold, but the rest of her was shrouded in a long coat, her exposed hands enveloped in black gloves, which were the first to come off as she began to disrobe herself of her outer layers.

She barely glanced at him as she did so, but her movements were quick and precise, a sure sign that something was weighing on her mind. It wasn't an altogether unfamiliar state of being for her, but she had just gone to spend the afternoon with her Aunt Nettie, which Gibbs had hoped would leave her feeling at least a little bit less… like this.

"How did it go?" he asked conversationally, subtly sussing out the situation.

When she didn't answer, instead hanging up her coat on the peg next to the door, concern immediately flooded him. He began to kick himself for allowing her to go alone, though he knew that if he had tagged along, with her approval or otherwise, she would have resented it. But despite Nettie's seemingly good intentions at the Navy Yard, he was incapable of fully trusting her not saying something that would send Ziva reeling. And given her current stormy silence, he knew something had happened. He leaned forward, as if readying himself to move quickly if necessary.

"Ziva, did she--?"

"No," she interrupted, finally turning to face him. She regarded him with a hard look for a moment, but then glanced away before adding, "She was fine."

She didn't say anything more. She had left her hair down and loosely curled for her meeting with her aunt, and she now tucked a lock behind her right ear. Her brown eyes flickered towards him once or twice, but each time they darted away before he could fully make eye contact.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling himself growing anxious from her silence. She didn't answer, and for a long moment she didn't even meet his gaze. But then, he saw the line of her jaw harden, as if she had come to some sort of decision.

With deliberate steps that were neither too fast nor too slow, Ziva approached him where he sat on the couch. He set both his coffee mug and the newspaper aside, shifting the rest of his attention to her as she moved closer. To his surprise, she didn't stop to sit beside him on the couch, or even to stand in front of him. Instead, she continued coming closer, until she was climbing onto the sofa, onto his lap. She straddled him, a knee planted firmly on either side of his legs. He saw the edge of her skirt ride up several inches to accommodate the position, but he barely spared a glance for the exposed skin as her slender form settled over him.

He looked at her in trepidation, uncertain of her intentions. He would be lying if he said her proximity wasn't doing inappropriate things to him. But the sensation wasn't welcome, not when it could have such disastrous repercussions in the healing process that was vital to her recovery and their relationship. He wanted to ask her what she had in mind, but his voice couldn't come.

Delicate fingers found the flesh of his right hand, grasping it gently before pressing it against the warmth of her bare thigh. Gibbs' breath caught in his throat, and he pressed his lips together tightly as he willed the flush of heat in his groin to cease and desist. But his eyes searched hers, looking for any indication of what she wanted. To his disappointment, he found nothing but a guarded wariness in her gaze-- she was protecting herself from something. Gibbs instantly knew that whatever she was doing now, if it was indeed sexual, she wasn't ready for it.

The arousal disappeared in the blink of an eye, and his free hand covered hers as he looked her straight in the eye. "_Ziva_..."

Before he could say anything more, her hands applied gentle pressure, guiding his hand around to cup the back of her thigh. He began to protest again, but when his fingers detected the all-too-familiar tactile sensation of a fresh scar, he froze. He tried to pull his hand away, sensing forbidden territory, but her hands kept it in place.

"It was a blowtorch." Ziva's voice strong and calm, but the lack of inflection in her tone betrayed her discomfort.

"Ziva, you don't have to--"

"Yes, I do," she interrupted quickly. Finally, her facade cracked, and he saw a glimmer of pain in her eyes. "I do," she repeated. "I do, because..." Her eyes flicked away from him. "Because you do not know, and it feels as if I am lying to you."

"You aren't--" Gibbs tried to reassure her, but she dismissed his efforts with a shake of his head.

"Please, Jethro, stop. You cannot say that when you do not know what happened. To be honest, your inability to detect when I am lying has been evident to both of us ever since the Director told you my father's orders regarding Ari."

Her words hit him like a kick to the gut, and she must have noticed because she closed her eyes and shook her head in a silent apology.

"I should not have said that," she whispered. Gibbs didn't respond. He knew she didn't really mean it, and he knew that what had been said in his basement after her rescue had been true. But while the hurt didn't immediately disappear, his hand did not pull away from her. He waited patiently for her to continue, but when the silence persisted, he took one of her hands in his and brought it gently to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, drawing her attention back to him.

Another minute passed in silence as Gibbs' fingers gently massaged her hand, blue eyes gazing unabashedly into brown. Finally, she spoke, nodding towards the captured hand.

"The little finger was broken," she revealed. Gibbs glanced at the finger in question, keen eyes only then detecting the slightest of kinks that hadn't been there last spring. "The rest had stress fractures."

"What?" The massage stopped.

"The doctor said they were most likely caused by repetitive, strenuous contraction of the muscles in my hand." She took a breath, steeling herself for the revelation to follow. "When I was tied to the chair, I gripped the armrests so tightly the bones cracked."

"Jesus..." Gibbs' eyes closed for a brief moment, biting back the wave of anger that surged through him. He regained his bearing quickly, and looked up to see Ziva's averted gaze. It was clear she was anxious; she was nervous about telling him, but so far she hadn't yet told him anything that would explain why she felt she had lied to him. But he wasn't going to ask directly. It was clearly she needed this, and he had wanted her to share with him, at least a little. They both needed this.

And then her hands were in motion again, bringing his calloused hands around her sides to press against her back. Immediately he was assaulted by the sensation of jagged stripes of scar tissue that striped across her back. Of his own volition he ran his hands up to her shoulders, and then back down to her hips. He moved slowly, his eyes asking a continuous question, looking for any indication that he was going too far. But while her body remained tense where it perched in front of him, her expression didn't change. She didn't panic, or pull away—her breathing was calm, albeit a little forced.

When she did not immediately give voice to the injuries, he made the effort himself.

"Belt?" he asked in a whisper. She hesitated, and Gibbs tried to fill in the blanks. "Whip…"

Ziva let out a soft breath of air. There was a trace of a wry grin working its way onto her lips. "Both," she admitted softly with a bob of her head. Her shoulders lifted in a tight shrug. Gibbs nodded. He could feel the difference in the width of the glassy bands of skin.

Their hands crept over almost every inch of her body. She showed him the small puckered scars on her abdomen, over a dozen of them, in pairs. Gibbs knew what had caused them before she said a word—only one thing could have left marks like that.

The bastards tasered her. Repeatedly.

The knowledge that it was standard tool of the trade for interrogators did little to ease the rage building inside him. Tasers were a tool of his trade as well, used by law enforcement agencies across the country. It shouldn't have been used on her, not when she had spent so long on the other side of such methods. Not only must it have been humbling, but Gibbs remembered how McGee had been affected by a single shot of a taser. He had twitched for almost ten minutes on scene, followed by at least two days of a head-to-toe ache; it hadn't been pleasant for him, nor the rest of the team to watch, despite DiNozzo's various quips. Gibbs didn't like the idea of Ziva going through the same thing, over and over again.

But he didn't tell her that, instead allowing her to continue on. She showed him the thin scar hidden just beyond the hairline of her forehead, where her head had been slammed into a cement wall. He saw the traces of what remained of the thin white scars beneath her fingernails, time having nearly erased all evidence of the needles that had been thrust under her nails. His fingers traced small slivers of scars, left behind by a knife, on her arms, her legs, even her shoulders.

But her calm faltered when she began to tell him what he couldn't see, what they had done that had left no physical trace behind. Her voice shook when she told him how they had wrapped their hands around her throat and strangled her, forcing her to the brink of death before pulling her back each time. The bruises on her neck had since faded, but the pain lingered, if the shadows in her eyes were any indication.

He knew she had not yet overcome her PTSD, and he tried to ground her in the present with a gentle touch, but then her eyes closed tightly, and he knew he was losing the battle. He knew that behind those lids she was reliving the months in the desert, feeling the burn of the fluid rushing down her throat and into her lungs as she told him how they had shoved her head into a bucket of ice cold water. She whispered how they had barely given her time to cough up one lungful of water before forcing her under again, repeating the process over and over until she either passed out beyond the point of revival or they lost interest.

She revealed how they had drugged her, sometimes leading to nightmarish hallucinations, or sometimes to simple blackouts. It turned out the blackouts frightened her more, as she had once woken up in a wooden box mid-transport, and another time in a windowless cell where they had left her for days without food or water. She almost told him about another time she woke up, but she cut herself off abruptly before she revealed any more details of the instance. It was then that the control over her distress broke just a little bit further, as she began to fidget against him, her eyes moving just a little bit quicker to avoid his gaze.

Her fingers gripped his shirt tightly as she explained why she hadn't tried any of Jackson's toffee when he had visited for Christmas. Jackson had done his best to persuade her to try some, but she had refused. Knowing that she was in fact a fan of toffee, Gibbs had wondered about it, but had not confronted her with it.

"It was almost a month, I think, before they pulled the first one," she told him shakily. It was several moments before Gibbs realized what she was referring to.

"They pulled your teeth?" he asked, hoping against hope he was wrong, but Ziva nodded. "How many?"

"Eight," she said bluntly. "They were systematic… They started on the top, left side, rearmost molar. Then the right side. Then the same on the bottom. They took the two rearmost molars from all sides. I got off lucky… I still had my knowledge teeth at the time, so I still have a set left…"

Gibbs' brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, before comprehension dawned. "Oh. Your wisdom teeth."

"Yes." She paused, then cleared her throat before looking up at him. She saw his concern, and tried to shrug it off. "I have been to the doctor's," she admitted. "They said there was not any infection, but I still have pain when I eat something that is difficult to chew."

Gibbs looked up at her, something sparking his memory. For a moment he saw her illuminated by candlelight, her eyes dark with some hidden secret. "Aw, shit, Ziva," he said. "The steak?" She nodded lightly. "Dammit, you should have told me… I wouldn't have pushed it if—"

"Stop." Her hand came up to cup his cheek. "I knew you didn't know. If your insistence had bothered me that much, I would have told you right then exactly why I didn't want to try the steak. That was my choice, and while I felt like an idiot with you looking at me as if I was going insane for not wanting to chew my food, I would make the choice again."

"Then why now? What made you change your mind?" Gibbs asked firmly. He regarded her for a long moment, waiting for an answer, but she looked away from him. He saw her walls building up again, and he quickly tried to recover the situation. "Ziva," he started, taking her hand in his, "I'm not accusing you. I'm trying to understand—"

"I know that," she returned, pulling her hand away. "That is the problem—you are so understanding… _too_ understanding, for someone who does not know the whole story." Gibbs tried to interrupt, but she lifted her hand for silence. "Please, stop. Just— stop." She took a deep breath. "I did not want to tell you because I was afraid. I did not want to lose you… But I realized that I did not want to lie anymore, especially not when it could turn you into a liar too."

"What do you mean?" Gibbs asked, confusion flooding him. "I haven't lied to you, Ziva, not once." He tried to catch her eye, but she turned her head from him. Her lips pressed into a thin line, making it clear there was something she had yet to tell him. "Ziva, do you not trust me?" She didn't respond. "You don't think I've been honest with you?"

She still refused to look at him, leaving Gibbs to puzzle through it on his own. He tried to make sense of what had just been revealed to him, but he couldn't. She felt guilty—why? Did she feel that she hadn't fought hard enough out in the desert? Did she regret showing him the scars? To him they were badges of courage, proof that she was a survivor, a fighter. But to her they would merely be reminders of her self-perceived weakness. But even that wouldn't explain her distrust of him.

He had been careful to be as honest as possible, knowing that any breach of the tenuous trust they had come to share after her rescue would destroy them both. And seeing the scars wouldn't scare him away. Surely she knew that he wasn't going anywhere any time soon, as long as she would have him. She wouldn't doubt—

_Shit_.

"You think I don't love you anymore?"

Her head bowed, cementing the hurt in the pit of his stomach. It suddenly made sense. The detachment that came and went haphazardly, the dark flicker of her gaze whenever he uttered the three little words he thought she would want to hear... She hadn't had any problem when she told him how much she loved him, which meant that this crisis of the heart was one-sided—she loved him, but thought he didn't return the sentiment.

"I knew that once you found out, you would not say it anymore. I would not have blamed you, but I knew it would hurt me too much for you to know, and to leave because of it. But every time you say it, it is not real. You do not have all the facts, you do not even know you are lying."

"I am _not_ lying to you Ziva," he declared firmly, careful to keep his voice calm. "I do love you, and none of this is going to change that—"

"You cannot say that!" she said, fully pulling away from him now. She stood, and moved to put several paces between herself and the couch. Gibbs wanted to follow, but remained seated so as not to risk spooking her. "You do not know—"

"I do!" he interrupted forcefully. "I know enough. You've been through hell, Ziva, I get that. But it was not your fault, and it's not scaring me off." He fought to keep from surging to his feet. "I love—"

He was cut off when Ziva suddenly crossed back to him, taking his hand and shoving it under her dress. The surprise of her movement silenced him, and when she refused to let him remove his captured appendage, he was forced to focus on the skin under his fingertips. She had pressed his fingers to her thigh once more, but this time on the front and much higher up than the first time. It was dangerously close to _that_ forbidden territory, that most private of places. He tried to shove that awareness from his mind, but found his head clouded by the confusion of trying to figure out what she wanted. He didn't want to prove his love sexually; that would backfire without a doubt, and leave her more damaged than reassured.

He focused on the flesh of itself, desperate to disregard the dark thoughts in his head. It was only then that he noticed the irregular surface beneath the pads of his fingers. It was another scar, that much was certain, but it was indiscernible. It felt almost like Morse code, a raised, written version forming to semicircles of dashes and dots that came together to make a misshapen oval. It took several long moments for Gibbs to finally recognize what it was. In his mind, the dashes and dots slowly turned into the impressions of human teeth, while the misshapen oval became the curvature of a dental arch.

It was a bite mark.

The realization winded him. Someone had bitten her. _Bitten_ her. And given the location of the scar, there was only one possibility of what had happened—rape. Saleem, or any one of his men, had raped her. Savagely, brutally, as much to weaken her as it was to satisfy their own primal urges.

Gibbs had suspected rape as a likely reality—she was a woman, a Jew in a Muslim terrorist camp, a foreign assassin, and to top it all off she was beautiful. But the suspicions had done nothing to prepare him for the pain of solid reality, and his heart sank from the weight of it.

Suddenly, Ziva moved away, leaving Gibbs' hand to fall limply to his lap. Her back was turned, but Gibbs could see an arm move, and he recognized the familiar motion as she furiously wiped away tears with the heel of her hand. Her free arm curled in front of her, wrapping around her midsection in obvious emotional distress. Her shoulders, which had slowly regained their regal bearing over in the past months, were now slack in both defeat and overwhelming shame.

Gibbs finally stood, disregarding tact to try to give her the comfort she needed. "Ziva…" He stepped closer to her, but remained a respectful distance away when he saw her body stiffen. "Please, he continued. "Talk to me."

"_Talk_ to you?" she parroted, her voice thick. "About what? Do you want me to say it out loud? I know you do not _need_ me to. You have figured it out quite well on your own." She paused. "You had the look."

"I hope you mean the look that tells you a shot to the head from 300 yards was too good a death for the bastard," he shot back, "because that's what I was thinking."

"No," she returned just as quickly, her words short. "I mean the look on your face when you realize that… that I am—" Her voice broke. Again she swiped at her eyes.

"Oh, Ziver…"

"No! I do not want your pity! That is even worse than you leaving—"

"I'm not leaving." Gibbs couldn't help but notice he was coming close to sounding like a petulant child. Luckily for him, Ziva was too worked up to notice. "There is no way in hell anything that bastard could do to you would change the way I feel about you."

"You still do not get it, Gibbs! It is not about what he did, it is what _I_…" When again she failed to finish her thought, Gibbs jumped right back to fill in the blanks.

"Ziva, you've said it yourself, years ago. Nobody lasts forever in the hands of a professional interrogator. And no one is going to think any less of you for telling them what they wanted to know."

"I did not tell them anything they did not already know, Jethro." There was the slightest trace of scorn in her voice, as if offended he could consider any other outcome.

"Then what the hell are you talking—"

"He _raped_ me!"

Her outburst was sudden and nearly violent. The look in her eye was one Gibbs had never seen before, smoldering with a combination of rage, frustration, and helplessness. It made him pause for only a moment, and he refused to let it scare him off.

"I know that, Ziver—"

"He raped me." This time, the admission seemed more to herself than to him. "He raped me, and he thought I liked it because… because I…"

She couldn't seem to find the words, but she no longer needed to. Gibbs now understood. He understood what had happened, and why she was so full of hate for herself. It was now so painfully obvious that he wondered how he could have been so dense. He should have realized, the moment she told him that he didn't understand. Because he hadn't understood—how could he have?

Saleem had raped her—and she had climaxed.

It was not unheard of, and was in no way evidence that a victim 'liked' it. It was a physical response, involuntary and forced, an added degree of rape that often left rapists feeling vindicated. And with a man like Saleem, an orgasm during rape was only an invitation to do it again and again. Gibbs knew it, and Ziva's continued confession only confirmed it.

"He thought I liked it, even though it hurt more than anything else he inflicted upon me. He did it over and over, and some days he would not leave until he had— until _I_… " Her voice was choked with pain, with tears that burned. "And if he was too tired to do it, he would make one of his men do it. It did not matter to him, because he said I was a slut for it anyway."

Tears poured down her cheeks, the pain of the abuse, the self-hate, and the shame breaking through the shields she had hidden behind for so long. The pain—there was so much pain in her gaze, her posture, her voice... It scared him—she was always so stoic, so impervious to physical afflictions that he had never before seen her this way. But as with all of her acknowledgements of any kind pain, it was not physical pain she let him see now—it was pure, unadulterated emotional anguish pouring from her, so sharp and so tangible he could almost smell it.

Gibbs closed his eyes, willing his own tears to remain trapped there, so that she would not see him weep. She didn't need that now; she didn't need to feel the guilt for his own break in character on top of everything else. They remained closed for several minutes, for the tears would not go away. They lingered, threatening to spill over. But he soon realized that he had been wrong to do so when he heard Ziva's soft sob as she misinterpreted his response. His eyes flashed open just in time to see her crumble.

She sank to her knees, much like she had the first time she had broken down after her rescue, after seeing the boat gone. Her breaths came in short gasps as tears poured down her cheeks, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, as if her insides might pour out of her if she relaxed her hold even the slightest bit.

Gibbs went to her, eager to ease her pain as much as he could. He didn't want to be part of that pain that was strangling her. He wanted to comfort her, to be a comfort _to_ her. He wrapped her in his arms, just as he always did, but instead of melting into him as he expected her to, she began to struggle.

He tried to resist her attempts to push him away, but the longer he held onto her, the more frantic her movements became. When he finally admitted defeat, and his hold on her relaxed, it gave her enough room to shove herself away, but not before she lashed out violently.

Her knuckles collided with his lips, and a burst of blood exploded in his mouth. He looked at her in shock, but didn't move farther than an arm's reach away. Gibbs looked at her, taking in her furious glare, transformed into something alien by the fact her eyes were wide from shock… or was it fear?

"No!" she said sharply. "Do _not_ try to act like everything is okay! It is _not_ okay!" Her chest rose and fell heavily, her breath rasping with her growing anxiety. "It is not fine, it is not okay."

"Ziver—" he tried to reach out to her once more, but she smacked his hand away.

"Do not touch me." Her voice grated now, sticking in her throat harshly. "He—he is still here, crawling in my skin. I do not want you…" Gibbs' gut clenched painfully. Rejection had never been easy, but coming from Ziva… But his fear was proven unfounded when she continued, her voice recovered, and a modicum of relief washed through him. "I do not want you to feel him too."

"He's not an infection, Ziva."

"Then why is he still here? Why does he still hurt me, even though you put a bullet in his head?" Despair flooded her features. "He can no longer touch me, but he still causes pain. He hurts me… It hurts so much and he is dead…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "When will I finally be free of him?"

"He only has as much power over you as you give him, Ziva," Gibbs stepped closer, but did not touch her. "This guilt? The hate you have for yourself—that's what he wanted. You have to let it go."

"But I—" She wiped her cheeks again angrily, but it nothing to stem the flow of tears. "I did not want him to, Jethro. You have to believe me." Her voice hiccupped slightly. "I did not like it, I hated it, but I could not stop it…"

"I do believe you, Ziva." He tried to reassure her, but she didn't seem to hear him as she barreled on.

"It felt like acid burning my skin, rushing through my veins. And when he made me…" She still could not bring herself to say it outright. Or maybe, Gibbs realized, she may not know the word for it in English. "It was like a million knives stabbing me at once. It was not how it was supposed to be, Jethro." Bitterness laced her tone. "I have had sex with strangers," she told him. "Sometimes, it would be what some would consider rape, but it was always on a mission, there was always a reason why I would allow…but it was never real. I never—it was always fake. They never knew the difference. But this—"

"I know." Gibbs' voice was soft, but not condescending. She wouldn't appreciate being treated as a child. But still, she shook her head.

"No, you do not," she said through her tears.

"Maybe not the way you do, but I understand." His hand reached out tentatively, slowly covering her hand where it rested against her leg. "You are a victim, Ziva." She visibly blanched, but Gibbs pressed on. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it's true. What was done to you was wrong, but it had nothing to do with you."

This caught her attention. Gibbs watched as her brow instantly furrowed, and her breathing calmed just the slightest bit. Confusion took the edge off her encroaching panic, as it shifted her attention from the memories of her torture to the words he was offering her.

"What are you talking about? Of course it was—"

"You were there, yes," Gibbs interrupted. "But that pain you're feeling right now, all of the torture he put you through: that would have happened whether or not you were there. If it wasn't you, then it would have been some other soul. Saleem Ulman didn't care who he was hurting. You were barely a second thought to him."

Ziva's hand finally closed over his. That was all Gibbs needed to know that he was getting through to her. But the tears still threatened, even as she nodded her head in agreement. "There were times… I think he forgot about me," she whispered. "For days, even. He did not care if I died or not."

"So what are you going to do, Ziver? Are you going to let him threaten your life forever?" He gave her with a firm look. "Are you going to let him consume you from the inside? Because that's where he is right now. He's dead, he can't make you bleed, or bruise… He's in your head." Her gaze fell, ashamed. But Gibbs continued, undaunted. "You're the only one who can get him out, Ziva. It's you against him now, and this time it's _your_ turn to not give a second thought."

Brown eyes looked up at him, murky with tears and shadows. But he saw something bordering on understanding in her gaze, which gave Gibbs hope. But there was doubt to counter it, laced with a flicker of discouragement that didn't get past him.

"It'll be tough," he continued. "Nothing about your situation is going to be a walk in the park, but you're not alone anymore. You have me, and you have the team. You made the decision to stay here and join our family. We won't let you drown in this, not while there's still breath in our bodies."

He looked at her, hoping for a smile of gratitude, or at least some surprise at his confession. She usually expressed shock when she saw how well the team looked after its own, and he knew she was still getting used to being _officially_ one of their own. But when her head fell again, her face hidden by her free hand, he knew something was wrong.

"Ziva, what is it?" The familiar flood of concern came rushing back, but he compartmentalized it as best he could and tried to keep his objectivity. "Ziva, talk to me. What's wrong?" The silence continued, broken only by the soft heave of a carefully contained sob. The sound itself scared Gibbs more than the silence. The silence he was used to; it was her trademark, the stoic nature that was mostly the result of her harsh upbringing. The silence was easily familiar to him, since a similar mentality was prevalent in the Corps.

But the quiet crying was not. The emotions that could be equated with weakness—grief, depression, pain—were not often included in her repertoire. It was true that she was more open with him, in the privacy of his house or her apartment, but even then, when she opened up to him, it was only after weeks of emotional torment. She would wait until it became too much, until it came pouring out of her in a crushing wave of unbounded anguish and turmoil. It was always loud, raucous even, and sometimes violent.

It was never dainty, or gentle. The traditional, delicate tears of the blushing maiden were never for her. This, this soft but heavy breaths of sound that were more whimpers than sobs, was so out of place coming from her lips that it shook Gibbs to the core. He didn't know how to handle it; he wasn't used to it, and he didn't know what it meant. She was still hurting, but he didn't know why, except for the fact that it seemed to be coming from within herself, rather than what had been done to her.

"Do you not want us to help you?"

Gibbs hoped his question would go unanswered, or denied entirely. He had become accustomed to helping her through her nightmares, her dark memories of the past that haunted her at night—that was easy. He'd had enough nightmares of his own to know what was needed and wanted. But self-hate, the belief that she couldn't be helped… or worse, _shouldn't_ be helped—he didn't know how to fix that. Which was why when her soft voice drifted up to him, his heart broke just a little bit more.

"I am too dirty," she whispered. "I feel… stained. I have not been clean since I have been back. I try… I _keep_ trying, but it never works, nothing ever works. I do not understand the way I feel, and it scares me. How can anyone help me if even I do not understand it?"

"That's the great thing about family, Ziver. No one has to understand anything. A lot of times all a person needs is to know that they aren't alone, and that they won't ever be alone." He reached out to tilt Ziva's chin up, so that he was able to look her in the eye. "And you aren't alone anymore, Ziva. I won't ever let you be alone again, and neither will the team."

"How can you know that? After everything… my betrayal, with Michael, my decision to stay in Israel…Tony, he does not trust me. Why should he? I broke the trust of everyone on the team… Why would they even want to help me?"

"Because that's what family does. They have each other's backs no matter what." He reached out to tilt Ziva's chin up, allowing him to look her in the eye. "And even though Tony is a juvenile idiot sometimes, he does care about you, and he _is _glad you're his partner again."

"You mean he is glad I am his _Probie_," she scoffed, sniffling lightly. Her eyes were still wet with tears, but the tiny smile on her lips lifted Gibbs' heart. It was the smallest smile he had ever seen, but it was enough for him. He wasn't sure how, but it seemed he had managed to lift her spirits a little. He doubted he had completely convinced her, but he hoped that she would be more receptive now.

"Ah," he said with a scoff of his own, "he's just jealous because you're not a real probie. You're not _Probie_, you're Ziva." He ran a hand over her hair, and grinned when she didn't pull away. "You're _our_ Ziva."

She pressed her lips together, but the rest of her body relaxed slightly. Gibbs moved closer, close enough to wrap an arm, the arm whose hand was not clasped in hers, around her shoulders. This time, her head leaned heavily against his shoulder. His cheek rested on the top her head, her silky hair soft against his skin. It wasn't long before the fabric of his shirt grew damp, the clench of Ziva's hand the only other indication her tears were still falling.

"How can you not hate me?"

Gibbs gave a soft sigh. "I think you hate yourself enough."

"That is not an answer."

"Fine. You want to know why? Because I love you."

"Still not an answer."

Gibbs grinned. She was still tough as nails, at least with him. It was a start. "All right. A real answer then. I don't hate you because I can't. I can't hate you for something you couldn't control, for something that was forced on you. There's no blame in any of this, not for you."

"But none of it would have happened if I had not turned my back on you, on the team. That was my decision, it was my fault."

"You did make a decision," Gibbs agreed. "I wasn't happy with it, but given the circumstances and everything you'd been through… I can't say I wouldn't have made the same decision."

"Really?"

"Ah huh. But it was your decision to make, just like it was your decision to stay here and become an agent. One decision didn't turn out so well, but that didn't make what happened your fault. If anyone other than Saleem was to blame, it'd be your father, not you."

"Malachi did not want me to continue. He wanted to abort the mission. I went on without him."

"Do you remember what I told you that day in Interrogation? Right after Ben-Gidon left with his tail between his legs. You remember?" When she didn't respond, Gibbs continued. "You didn't have a choice. You never did. Because of your father. Even if you didn't have death in your heart that day, you still would have refused to abort, because he didn't raise a failure, did he? You still would have done the exact same thing, only then you wouldn't be blaming yourself for what followed."

He squeezed her hand, and after a long moment, she returned it with one of her own. By now the last rays of the afternoon sun had disappeared, leaving them both in shrouded twilight that deepened by the second. For a moment he wondered if he should turn on the nearest lamp, but decided against it when Ziva sighed against him. It sounded halfway content, but the other half sounded so wounded that any thought of moving away fled his mind.

"I do not think I can do this alone."

"Oh, Ziver," he murmured softly, holding her tighter. "You don't have to. Not anymore."

Ziva reached over and covered their clasped hands with her free one. Gibbs' fingers were immediately warmed by the contact, and the warmth traveled up the length of his arm until his entire chest felt the infectious heat. She was still sniffling lightly, but she let the tears flow unchecked. She probably didn't realize it, Gibbs rationalized, but it was the ultimate show of trust to allow them to fall in front of him. Or maybe she was just too tired to hide them anymore.

Either way, he knew right then that he would forever remember this moment for the rest of his life. Whether it was to wonder how they had ever found each other, or exactly why it was that he loved such a complex woman, or if years later someone asked him if there were any pivotal moments that he could say defined what he and Ziva shared… he knew that this moment would flash in his mind with perfect clarity. He knew immediately that it was seared into his soul, and if given a choice, he wouldn't change a goddamned thing.

"I'll never let you drown," he added softly. "I'll never let you go again."

For a moment, he half-expected her to pull away from him, and regard him with a scathing look as she reamed him out for his overbearing possessiveness. But she didn't pull away, and she didn't look at him. Instead, a voice, the smallest she had yet let escape that night, nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"Promise?"

"I promise," he whispered softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "With all my heart."

* * *

A/N: Finally. The chapter I've been promising. This subject is not entirely finished, but I am thinking of doing the last part as sort of a tie-in with Jetlag... Let me know how you like this installment. It took forever because it is such a sensitive subject for so many people, and I wanted to do it justice. I included mentions of one of my one-shots, Breaking Point. Check it out if you have no idea what I'm referring to!

Also, just a little newsflash, I have an installment of Betrayal waiting to be uploaded, so be on the lookout!


	36. Stormy Seas

Ziva swung her overnight bag over her shoulder as she slammed the car door shut. Within moments, she was up the walk and opening the front door and pushing her way inside. A single thought occupied her mind, and it was entirely focused on a man with silver hair and sky blue eyes, and went by the name of Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

She closed the door behind her to shut out the cold, and dumped her bag by the door without ceremony. She heard a muffled call from the kitchen, offered to alert her to her target's location, and immediately made a beeline towards her quarry. She reached the threshold of the kitchen just as Gibbs moved to come out and meet her.

As soon as she was within reach, her arms wrapped around him, bringing her body flush against his as she pressed her lips against his in a searing kiss. It was spontaneous, surprising even herself, and she almost laughed when she felt him tense in similar surprise at her sudden attack. But then he melted, returning the kiss with equal, but reserved fervor. A hand gently cupped her neck, pulling her even closer, and then she really did smile, even as he tried to continue the kiss. To his credit, he responded well to kissing her teeth.

"Now there's a welcome home I can get used to," Gibbs quipped, his voice low. Ziva looked up at him, unable to banish her grin.

"Ah, but you did not go anywhere."

"I never said the welcome was for me," he responded blithely. Ziva's brow furrowed as she processed what he said, but in the end simply accepted it with roll of her eyes. "How was Paris?" he asked.

"A little boring, actually," she admitted, resting her forehead against his chin. "But Tony had a…" Her head lifted again as she searched for the correct term. "Bomb?" When Gibbs smirked, she knew she had gotten it wrong. "Explosion. No…" Her finger tapped his shoulder patiently as she combed her mental dictionary. "Blast!" she said triumphantly. Her palm patted his shoulder now, once. "Tony had a blast."

"Doesn't take much to excite him," Gibbs returned. "Why didn't you enjoy it?"

"Well," she said, "I have already been there. Once you have been to a place so many times, it gets to be that the sights simply are not enough to keep your interest. It becomes more about who you are with, the new memories you can make with a person." She shrugged. "Besides, the last time I thought about going to Paris was…" Her voice trailed off. The old familiar pang squeezed her heart, but she brushed it off.

"Rivkin?" Gibbs asked gently, his tone respectful of a topic she could very well want to leave alone. Ziva gave him a grin for his efforts, but shook her head no.

"Ari." Gibbs blinked in surprise. Ziva took a breath before launching into an explanation. "My plan was to get Ari out of the country and then provide him with the means to hide. To run, and never be found. Paris was to be our rendezvous, where I would give him the rest of his documents and say goodbye before our father came looking." When she looked up at him, Ziva saw Gibbs' blank expression. She sighed. "I really did believe him innocent, Gibbs."

"I know," he whispered. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"But even if Paris had been as amazing as Tony thought it was… I would still be glad to be home," Ziva continued, a smile on her lips as she reveled in the word. Home. She was _home_. With a contented sigh, she rested her head against his right shoulder, but then instantly pulled back when she heard a hiss of pain.

Her hands held him steady as she took a step back, careful not to jostle anything as her eyes scoured his form. She hadn't seen any indication of an injury in the split second before she launched herself at him, and now that she took a closer look, she still didn't see anything. Ziva could feel Gibbs ready himself for a brush off, but before he could start, her fingers darted out to gently prod the muscle of his right shoulder.

Gibbs paled instantly, a low moan through his teeth the only audible indication of his pain. Ziva's eyes narrowed.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded. The next moment she changed her mind, and her hand went up to stave off his explanation. "Never mind, do not say anything. I will figure it out myself."

Though he tried to protest, her fingers made short work of his plaid shirt, whose buttons had been left undone, and pulled the loose material carefully over the swollen joint so that she could get a look at it. When she saw the mottled mass of reds, blues, and greens, she gasped.

"You dislocated your shoulder?!" she exclaimed. She glared at him, concern and irritation and sudden fear washing over her. "What could have possibly happened in the forty-eight hours I have been gone to warrant a dislocated shoulder?"

"Your witness's husband tried to make a break for it past me… in his car. The car won."

Her eyes narrowed. "The car _won_? That is all you have to say?" There was no disguising the irritation in her voice. But she took a deep breath and took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest as she regarded Gibbs with a hard look. "Did you at least get checked out by the on-scene medics?"

"Of course I did." His tone implied he was offended by her assumption, but Ziva wasn't buying it.

"Good," she retorted haughtily, "because even an idiot would be able to identify your injury. Which means they gave you a sling." She eyed him. "Where is it?"

Gibbs let out a scoff, indignant, but when all he got was an expectant arch of an eyebrow, he quickly realized it would be better not to argue. Ziva watched his eyes narrow slightly, and then roll in concession as he nodded towards the living room. "Couch," he said simply, prompting her to stalk across the room and snatch the sling off the cushions.

Then she was back, gently lifting his arm and settling it into the sling. Her touch was warm, gentle, and betrayed none of the irritation her expression showed. He grinned when his arm settled, both at the relief he felt and the realization that she had managed to move it in a way that caused him no additional pain whatsoever.

"You will wear this sling at all times, Leroy Jethro Gibbs," Ziva ordered, her voice stern. "The only time you get to take it off is at night, right before you go to sleep. And then in the mornings it goes right back on. Luckily, you were injured on the job, so the Director already knows. You will not take any extra risks at work, you will not be on the front lines, and you will not be driving until the doctor clears you, understand?"

"Not on the front lines?" Gibbs questioned. "That's not gonna fly, Ziver, and you know it. We're the MCRT, we gotta go out in the field."

"I know that," she returned, not giving an inch. "But when we do you will not be the one on point. No kicking down doors, no chasing after suspects. Let us handle that, until your shoulder has healed. And if the doctor has advised against something I have not mentioned, then you obey the doctor's orders as well."

"Ziver—"

"It is either that, or I handcuff you to the fridge."

"Wait—what?"

"Well, it seems that I cannot be gone even forty-eight hours without you managing to injure yourself. So either you agree to my terms or I will prevent you from injuring yourself by isolating you from high-risk situations. Given your lifestyle, that means leaving you locked to your fridge." She shrugged. "But it is your choice," she finished simply.

"Jesus, Ziver…" he muttered. "Fine. Deal." He glared at her for a moment, but when he saw the smile curling her lips, he found himself grinning too. "You certainly drive a hard bargain."

"Desperate times, sweetheart." She sidled past him with a sultry grin, planting a kiss on his cheek as she passed. Mentioning the fridge had sparked her hunger, and she was suddenly feeling a craving for popcorn. Before she could get all the way past, however, his uninjured arm shot out and snagged her around the waist. He pulled her close, and she let him, and soon he was whispering in her ear.

"And I hear you're not so innocent yourself, _darling_," he murmured. "Got into a tussle on the plane, did you?"

"I do not know what a tussle is, but I assure you our situations are entirely different."

"Oh? What makes you so sure?"

"I got in a fight with a flight attending assassin, but _I_ did not get injured." She twisted in his arms so that they were front to front, their noses nearly touching. "See?" she murmured back to him. "Not even a bruise."

"Yeah, yeah," he conceded. "I'd like to see how you'd do against a speeding getaway car."

"Easy," she said, finally pulling away to pad into the kitchen, intent on satisfying her sudden craving for popcorn; if she let the kernels melt in her mouth for a minute or two, it should not hurt to chew them, she reasoned. As she pulled out a sleeve of buttered Secret Pop, she threw a saucy grin over her shoulder.

"I'd dodge."

---

A half hour later, Ziva was still working through her bag of popcorn as she sat on the living room couch. Gibbs' arm was around the back of her neck, draped casually over her shoulders. She had started out simply sitting next to him, but slowly and surely she had gravitated towards him, leaving her leaning heavily against him. She could tell that Gibbs was comfortable with her proximity, that he welcomed it, but she still felt… stiff, for lack of a better word. She kept expecting him to say something about it, to call attention to the fact that she had finally loosened up enough to allow an extended period of physical contact.

But he didn't. He didn't say a word about it, and for that Ziva was grateful. She knew that if he had, she probably would have pulled away, either ashamed or embarrassed for being called out. In the silence she could pretend like everything was normal, that it was just another evening. That it was just how used to be, before… before everything.

There was a drawback to her current position, however, leaning up against Gibbs. His warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing was lulling her into a sense of peace, a calm that seeped into her very bones. She sighed heavily, and set aside her snack, no longer hungry for it. She felt Gibbs look down at her.

"Jetlag?" he asked softly, his voice full of concern. She had never succumbed to jetlag before, not even after a direct flight from Tel Aviv.

"No," she replied honestly. "I did not really sleep in Paris." She could feel him shift under her as his worry increased. However, she didn't feel any surprise in his limbs. It seemed her admission was not something he had not expected.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked.

"There is nothing to talk about," she responded. When he took a breath to argue, she cut him off at the head. "I am not trying to brush it off, Jethro. There is nothing to talk about because I know why I could not sleep."

"Really?"

She nodded. "It took me a long to time to be comfortable enough to sleep in the same room as you_,_ Jethro. _You_, the man I have shared a bed with for the past two years. I was not ready to try with someone else."

"What do you mean?" His voice hardened, and in an instant Ziva realized he was unaware of the mix up that had occurred at the hotel.

"There was a misunderstanding at the hotel," she murmured. "There was only one room reserved for us when we arrived."

"You shared a room with _Dinozzo?_" The slightest hint of rage tinged his voice, but in the next instance it was eclipsed by concern. "Was he inappropriate?"

"No," she assured him quickly. But then she paused. "Well…"

"Ziva…"

"It is just… there was not a very large couch. I was willing to take it, but Tony insisted that I did not. He said we were both adults, and that we could share the bed." She paused then, but when she felt Gibbs tense in anger, she continued. "The bed was more than large enough," she said, her voice soft, "and he did not do anything wrong, it is just…"

"You didn't feel comfortable," he filled in. She nodded. "There's nothing wrong with that, Ziva. He shouldn't have pushed it. It was unprofessional, and he should have known better." His words struck home, and suddenly the calm left Ziva, inexplicable and swift in its departure. In its wake she felt tense, and her lips pressed together as her jaw tightened. "I'll talk to him tomorrow," Gibbs continued.

"No," she protested quickly. "Please, don't." She sighed, knowing that it would not be enough to leave it at that. For all of Gibbs' traits, desirable or otherwise, the ability to simply leave things alone was not one of them. "If you say anything to him about it, it will only make things more awkward between us, and he was already nervous enough. He was only trying to be chivalrous, even if it was uncomfortable." She gave another sigh.

"He is trying, Gibbs." She could feel him relax slightly, and she smiled. "I think our partnership is finally starting to mend. I realized that when I was laying awake that night in Paris. Being there in that bed with him, I realized he was starting to forgive me. But at the same time I realized… I am not comfortable with him. Not the way I used to be. That bothered me more than the lack of sleep, I think."

There was a moment of silence after she finished, and Gibbs absorbed what she had said. There was no more irritation or anger towards Tony, she could tell. But he was pensive, and that made her a little apprehensive. Had she shared too much? Ever since she had revealed her injuries to him, she had tried to remain open with him, but she had yet to rediscover the boundaries of her comfort zone.

"While you were away I had some extra time on my hands," Gibbs revealed to her, his voice tender. The non sequitur surprised her, as did his gentle tone. "I did some research, talked to a few people, did some Googling…" His voice drifted for a second when he heard Ziva snicker, but then returned just as strong. "Ziva, have you talked to anyone about getting implants?"

Ziva's eyebrows shot sky high. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, for your teeth." His tone was innocent. "I talked to a couple of specialists, and they said they would be able to help."

"Tooth implants." Ziva tried not to let her grin be heard in her voice. Just when she thought he could not possibly be any more amazing and understanding, he goes and braves the internet to look into tooth implants for her.

"Yeah," he replied. "It's a simple procedure, and it could be done in a weekend. They could have you in and out, and you can choose whether you want local or general anesthesia… All they need to do is—"

"Drill metal posts into my jaw and then fix a fake tooth to the tops?" Ziva finished for him. She surprised him— she could tell from the slight tension that filled the arm across her shoulders, but in the next moment he relaxed in disappointment as comprehension dawned.

"You already know," he stated glumly.

"Yes," she replied. "I have an evaluation scheduled for next week."

When Gibbs did not immediately respond, Ziva sat up and turned to face him. He was trying to keep his expression blank, but she could see the disappointment lurking in his bright blue eyes. Reaching up, she cupped the curve of his jaw with her right hand. With gentle pressure, she rotated his head so that he had no choice but to meet her gaze.

"Thank you," she said softly. "You did not have to look into my options, and the fact that you did…" A small smile curled her lips. "It means a lot."

There was a tense moment as Gibbs simply looked into her eyes, but then, finally, he grinned. "To be honest, I thought you would think I had overstepped my bounds."

Ziva smirked. "You? Bounds? No such thing." Gibbs reached up and captured the hand that was resting on his jaw and curled his own fingers over it. He allowed his fingers to gently caress her skin for a moment, and she watched as he seemed to gather his thoughts. When he finally made eye contact again, Ziva was ready and waiting.

"Can I ask you something?"

Ziva froze in surprise at his request, but it only lasted for a split second and she recovered quickly. "Of course," she replied. She couldn't quite keep the shock from her voice; Gibbs never asked permission for anything. He either did something or he didn't—there was no room for permission.

"Have you gotten checked out by the doctors since you first got back to the states?"

"Yes," she responded. "I have." There was no point in hiding it from him. Was there?

"When was your last appointment?"

Oh yes. _That_ was why she'd been reluctant to share that information. "Last month," she admitted. She didn't have to look at him to know he was hurt. Last month, she had been here, living with him, and she hadn't told him of her appointments with the doctor. It had been nothing more of a check up, to ensure she was healing as predicted and to test for any diseases she might have contracted in the desert. But she hadn't even told Gibbs, and that little fact didn't get past him either.

"You didn't say anything," he said. His voice was soft, but not quite as flat as he was trying for.

"No, I didn't."

"Why?"

"I did not want you to know." At this point, she knew that honesty would be the only thing that could give even the smallest comfort to him. "I was not ready."

"I would've gone with you," he told her.

"I know that," she responded. "That is why I did not tell you. I knew you would want to come with me, and there was too great a risk that the doctor would say something, or you would charm one of the nurses into letting something slip. Part of what makes you a great investigator is your ability to get information from people even if you are not looking for it. I was not ready for that to happen."

Gibbs sighed softly. He still wasn't happy, that much was obvious, but Ziva could tell that he understood. Then again, when did he _not_ understand? In anyone else, the trait would have annoyed her.

"Will you come with me for the evaluation next week?" she asked. She couldn't help but smile when she saw his eyes light up in delight.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a pleased drawl. "I think I can clear my schedule."

"I sure hope so, considering it is on a weekend." Ziva grinned, then settled back down on the couch. This time, she didn't lean up against him, but his arm still lay across her shoulders. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_," Gibbs corrected.

Ziva didn't respond to that, and Gibbs didn't say anything more. A silence fell, and while it wasn't tense, it wasn't exactly comfortable either. It wavered in the in between, which leant the atmosphere its own brand of awkward quiet. Ziva sensed that Gibbs wasn't quite finished. His finger tapped silently against his leg, a slow and steady beat that told Ziva there was something still weighing on his mind. She waited patiently, not altogether eager to bring up any more sensitive topics herself.

When he finally spoke up, his words were carefully chosen, his tone schooled. Even before he finished uttering his first word, she knew that he was afraid it would hurt her.

"Have you thought about seeing a psychologist?"

Ziva hesitated, the question taking her off guard. She kicked herself mentally—she should have seen that one coming.

"You know I did. I had to in order to become an agent."

"I don't mean to get tested. I mean to talk to someone about your problems."

She knew Gibbs only meant well. She did. But that knowledge couldn't prevent her from bristling in anger. She felt her natural defenses sliding back up; the lifelong walls she hid behind were familiar and more of a comfort than the warmth of his arm was.

She didn't have _problems_. Davids don't have _problems_. Davids fix problems. She was just… struggling. It was to be expected, right? That's what Gibbs had said, and she had made a huge step when she finally admitted her injuries, shared some of the experiences she had somehow survived.

It _was_ a huge step, right? If she had to be completely honest with herself, she did feel better, him knowing what he now knew, but… was it as big a development as it felt like?

Apparently it wasn't.

Gibbs didn't like psychologists… they were on the same level as lawyers in his world. So why would he want her to talk to one? Maybe—Maybe he didn't want to be the one to share her secrets. Maybe he didn't want to hide things from the team… It was only a matter of time until they began asking questions about her, she knew from the way Tony had kept stealing glances at her in Paris.

She didn't like hiding from them, though she knew she had to, and she didn't want Gibbs to have to shoulder her burden as well. Showing her scars might not have been a mistake, but it should be the last thing she shared, she knew that much. It was not fair to him, to ask him to bear her burden.

"Ziva."

Gibbs voice broke through her thoughts. The world refocused around her, but she refused to look at him. She couldn't. She couldn't look at him and see her own ghosts in his eyes. It would hurt too much.

"Ziva, look at me."

This time, she didn't ignore him. Instead, she did him one better, doing the opposite of what he asked and averted her gaze further. She glanced away from him, hiding her hurt and confusion as best she could. But he was stubborn, pulling out the one trump card he knew she could never resist.

"Please?"

Damn it. That word was going to be her undoing. This was twice in one night that he had asked for something. He really was going for… broke? Was that the right word? Not the greatest of colloquialisms if it was. What did it even mean? Ziva almost got lost in that train of thought when the echo of _that_ word whispered through her mind. She wanted to blow him off, she didn't want to let that single word have power over her. But she couldn't resist it.

Blue eyes were waiting for her as she turned her head towards him. They were tender, filled with concern and honesty. This time, though, it was not reassuring—it sickened her.

"I'm not saying I don't want you to talk to me anymore," Gibbs said, his gaze not wavering. "I _do_ want you to talk to me. But I want to help you, and I don't think I'm doing to a good job of it. You've been through something I could never really understand."

"And you think some idiot sitting in a plush chair in some clinically depressing office would have a better understanding?" Ziva responded, her voice so strained from barely concealed rage building within her that it was almost a hiss. "I know you do not understand. No one could possibly understand… but you are the one who is most likely to do so. And I do not expect you to _understand_. What do I care about understanding? Even _I_ do not understand." She glared at him. "Talking to some stranger about problems that do not concern him is not going to help me."

"Won't it? A professional psychologist, therapist, idiot sitting in a plush chair, whatever you want to call it… He won't expect anything of you. He won't have any preconceptions of you, no standard to hold you to. You wouldn't have to worry about hiding anything from him. You won't have to shield yourself from him, protect him from what you went through, like you want to do for us."

"What?"

"Isn't that why you are so reluctant to tell us anything? To tell me? You might think you're protecting yourself, but I think you're also trying to protect us. You don't want us to know what happened, because you know we'll hurt for you. And you don't want us to, especially not the others. McGee, Abby, even Tony… You want to protect them." He looked her in the eye. "You want to protect your family."

What the… Who the hell did he think he was? What did he know about what she wanted? The thoughts came unbidden and unwanted, but within moments, they were all encompassing. Suddenly, she was fighting the urge to lash out.

"No, Gibbs. If I wanted to protect them, I would do it the only way I know how—my bare hands, a knife, or a gun. I do not tell them anything because I do not _want_ them to know anything." Ziva's voice was little more than a snarl by this point. Something in her had snapped, and she could not keep the words from spilling out. They dripped from her lips like poison, and she could see Jethro's eyes darken with each additional word. "I only told _you_ something about it because I knew that one day you would want what every guy wants, and if that day came without you knowing what Saleem did, you would leave on the spot. So I decided to give you the chance to run before you decided you wanted to do more than simply sit around and wait for me to break."

She stood now, the need to explode growing to the point she couldn't sit still for another moment. She hadn't felt this angry since that day in Tel Aviv when she had pulled a gun on her partner. It scared her, but that fear was completely overwhelmed by the sheer force of her anger at Gibbs' presumption.

"You did not run," she spat, "and I appreciate that, but do not for one moment think that you have any idea what I want, or what is best for me. Because what I _want_ is for people to keep their noses out of _my_ business."

This time, she didn't wait to see his crestfallen expression. She turned on her heel and went to the foyer, slipping her shoes back and yanking her coat from the hook by the door. She had to get out, away from him, away from the house. She needed room to herself, to think. She needed to breathe.

"Ziva…"

"And right now I _want_ to go for a walk." She didn't even spare him a glance. "If you have a problem with that, maybe you should run it by a psychologist. I am sure he could give you some insight into the problem of your overbearing paranoia."

And then she was gone, slamming the door behind her as she welcomed the chill of the winter's night.


	37. She Would Tell Gibbs

_A/N: There were so many things I could have used for material this week. And for anyone else who threw up a little in their mouths when Gibbs and Hart (aka the TRAMP) did that stupid little eskimo kiss... Don't worry. That little scene will be getting plenty of attention. It will be spoofed, greatly. But that chapter will be posted in Something Extra. Here it just wouldn't flow. So for now, Ziva angst. Before I get groans of annoyance from having to read about her again, well... consider just which story you're reading. She's going to be getting attention, that much is evident from the first chapter. As for the angst... I know, I don't like overdone angst either. But it won't last forever. Next chapter I post for this story will be the end of the prolific Ziva angst. Maybe I should coin a new term for it... Zangst, maybe. Hm. Kinda catchy._

_Anyways... Read, enjoy, and please let me know how you like it!_

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She was an idiot. Why did she have to bring up Saleem? True, he had been on her mind lately, after her argument with Jethro that night she got back from Paris. But why bring him up now? In front of Tony, no less?

She knew the moment his name had left her lips that it had been a mistake. His head had perked up just so, and then the carefully nonchalant response that was a prelude for what he hoped would be a delicate conversation. He wanted details, and now she had obliged him by even mentioning the fact that Saleem had hurt her.

And she knew her partner. Once he caught wind of something, he would sniff it out like hound on a scent. He wouldn't let it go until he got the information he wanted. It was what made him a good investigator, but this time, he wanted information he couldn't have, information she couldn't give.

"You never talk about it."

His voice was soft, quiet even in the murky silence of the warehouse. All her rambling about the fine, upstanding morals of America—which she had let pour out of her mouth as a smokescreen—had done nothing to deter him from the topic that she was most desperate to avoid.

"What is there to talk about?"

Her response was half an octave higher than she had been shooting for, belying her newfound anxiety, but the inquiry held true. What _was_ there to talk about? The pain of not being allowed to die, the days spent with nothing to do but face the demons of her past? No. Such a concept was not even a blip on his radar. He, like everyone else, was more concerned with the physical pain.

It was funny, how the pain that faded the most quickly was what everyone most wanted to hear about. Perhaps it was all they could handle, all they could comprehend. True, it was the most obvious affliction, but they seemed to have forgotten that she had been trained to ignore physical pain. There wasn't any physical pain anymore. That much had healed.

"Come on, Ziva."

Come on?_ Come on?_ The words were simple, used by millions of Americans every single day. But in that moment, in the shadows of a terrorist's warehouse, they were as abrasive as sandpaper on a gunshot wound. Suddenly, all she could see was the tilt of his head, the tiny ever-present grin on the edge of his lips, the curious gleam of his eyes… And it angered her.

The same ire that flared in her during her fight with Gibbs reared its ugly head once more as she realized that it wasn't just concern that prodded him to ask her to confide in him. He expected her to. He felt _entitled_. She wondered why. Because he had rescued her? No, it hadn't been a solo mission… Both Gibbs and McGee had been there too, and neither of them felt entitled. Gibbs wanted her to talk because he thought it would help her, and so far McGee had been the only one to not ask anything of her.

Then what was it? Because he was her partner? Because he had been tied to the same chair she had been? It hadn't been for long, but did that matter? No. He still felt _entitled._ As if he had a right to get inside her head. Well, she knew the rights afforded to every American. She had been studying them for months now. And not one of them allowed him any leeway into her mind. Keeping her secrets… that was her prerogative, _her_ right. She was not bound to give him _anything_.

And she wasn't going to.

"What Saleem did was bad enough," she said finally, her head cocked to the side like a petulant child though her voice remained steady. "Becoming like him would be even worse."

She turned then, and walked away. Her words were little more than nonsense, and change of subject designed to make Tony hesitate long enough for her to put some distance between them. He was trying to emulate Gibbs now, getting into her personal space, but he didn't know what Gibbs did. He didn't know that his proximity was unnerving her.

No, not just unnerving her. It was sending her pulse into an erratic horserace, and tightening her chest to the point that she could barely breathe without hyperventilating. Gibbs knew not to crowd her, he knew that she didn't like to talk about personal matters when she was within arm's reach of someone. Gibbs respected that, most of the time. Tony didn't.

She occupied herself with inspecting the warehouse around her. She ignored the dark shadows and the memories it threatened to waken, instead focusing on the items illuminated in the beam of her flashlight. She saw some basic hand tools she recognized from Gibbs' garage, as well as some clear evidence as to the extended presence of at least two individuals. Most likely two men, if the gentleman's magazines were any indication. But then, she had been known to read such magazines herself. Tony would be the first to attest to that.

But then a bottle caught her eye, brown with a white label. _Acetone hydroxide_. She called Tony's attention to it, grateful for the distraction. Now he wouldn't ask any more questions, or if he did, it would be about the case. She could handle questions about the case. The case was neutral territory, safe, even though the presence of that Allison Hart was less entertaining than it was a pain in her ass.

Of course, Tony was anything if not stubborn to the last. Or foolhardy, depending on how one looked at it. Once the find had been called in, he turned to her, and his eyes held the _look_.

He hadn't dropped it.

"You're gonna have to tell someone sometime, Ziva," he said.

"I do not have anything to share," she returned, fighting to keep the fire from her voice. They had just started getting back to normal, after their night in Paris. If she let him see the darker side of herself, the side that had overcome her during her fight with Jethro—that progress would be for nothing. He would hate her. And as much as he annoyed her sometimes, she didn't want to lose him.

"And if you did… would you tell me?"

Ziva froze, her breath catching in her chest. A memory sparked; a pivotal one, though it felt distant. It swirled with echoes of anxiety, guilt, confusion, and anger. An angry confrontation spurred by frustration and distrust. Furious shouts and accusations, and then the question of all questions.

_And if you did, would you tell me?_

_No. But I would tell Gibbs._

In her mind she saw the flash of hurt on his face before the elevator doors closed, and felt the sinking sensation of her stomach. She had reverted that afternoon, gone back to her Mossad ways, and had struck him where it hurt most. She had both reminded him that he could never measure up to Gibbs, and that he was no longer important enough in her life to trust him with information about Michael.

Since her rescue, Gibbs had striven to convince her that she was not that person anymore. He said that part of her had died in the desert. But it hadn't. Not really. Because though it had been months between that day in the squad room and his repeated question in the middle of a grungy warehouse, the answer was still the same. She refused to say it, refused to see that flash of hurt again... but it was still the same.

_No. But I would tell Gibbs._


	38. Over the Precipice

_Special A/N: I am posting the links from my earlier Author's Note regarding the scary rumors on my profile. Hopefully there they will come through okay and you might actually be able to see them.  
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_Also, a special shout-out to zivafan: I was not referring to your review in my author's note ;) I appreciate all honesty, as long as its not a flame. Flames are just rude. But in my author's note below I wanted to try and explain my reasons for why I made Tony seem as he did, out of respect for his character which, I might add, has gotten much more down to earth recently. I like down to earth Tony immensely. So zivafan, keep doing what you're doing. Even if you think I'm being an idiot (which had been known to happen), I'd much rather be told than have everyone suffer in silence!_

_This Author's Note and the one down below is the only changes to this chapter.  
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Ziva entered the house and closed the door behind her quietly, savoring the silence of the empty structure. Gibbs hadn't made it home yet, and the cool darkness of the empty home soothed Ziva's nerves. The day hadn't been overly stressful—just a day of paperwork, really—but through it all she had been fighting. Fighting to contain herself, to not yell and scream as she so desperately wanted to do. She hated it, that feeling of oppression that came from within. It was as if she had something to say, but was unable to utter a word past the invisible noose that slowly strangled her. Sometimes, it felt like she could hardly breathe, but being alone, in the dark… it helped. She didn't know why, but it did, and she wanted to savor every moment she had before Gibbs joined her.

She tried to relax in the living room, but that only reminded her of the fight they'd had a few weeks prior. The bedroom was definitely off-limits, with its whispered reminders of everything that _hadn't_ happened there in months. The kitchen too, was too much for her to handle. There were too many good memories there, memories of smiles and laughter and sly innuendos. She didn't want them. She wasn't happy, and she didn't want to be reminded of when she had once been.

When she made her way to the basement, she thought it would be the same as the kitchen… full of memories. But when the sweet scent of old sawdust wafted over her, she found that it had the opposite effect. The memories, she realized… they were with the boat, down in Mexico. The basement itself, well—it was just a basement. It seemed almost desolate now, with its abandoned tools and the shadows that shrouded the walls. It looked like the place in her memories, it smelled like it…

But it was empty. Much like she was.

She looked as she always did, she talked as she did, but—she wasn't the same person. Which was not something to regret, she knew that. The problem had come when she'd discovered that she didn't know who the _new_ Ziva was. She had once told Malachai Ben-Gidon that it was unnatural for a snake to try and slither into back into a shed skin. But what happened when the snake left its skin before growing a new one?

Ziva didn't know about snakes, but she felt empty, as empty as the basement, just as shadowed.

Settling herself on a stool, she closed her eyes and listened to the silence. Every so often, the call of a bird could be heard from outside, but inside the house there was nothing. Not a creak of a floorboard or the thud of a footstep. All she could hear was her own breathing, but the sound was not as comforting as it used to be. After her return to America, hearing the sound of her breathing had been a relief, a reminder that she was still alive. But now that the shock had worn off, now that she was accustomed to living from day to day, it no longer reminded her of anything important.

How could someone be so empty and so full at the same time? Ziva couldn't make sense of it. She felt on the verge of some kind of explosion, ready to burst, but then she forced the smiles and the interactions with the rest of the team. It felt as if she were a spectator, even as she hugged Abby and verbally jousted with DiNozzo, as though she were a shell able to only emote what was expected of her. It was only at home with Gibbs that she even came close to surfacing, but lately even that relief had been denied her. Now the only thing she seemed to feel at all was anger.

She knew she shouldn't, she had no right to be. She was alive, she was safe, and she was with the ones she loved. And she did—she loved Gibbs, she loved the team. They were her family, she knew that now. She knew in her heart, when she worried for DiNozzo when his father had suddenly shown in the squad room that one day, and the way she hurt for McGee when his latest love interest, the one she had so convincingly claimed was perfect for the young agent, turned out to be a South African assassin. Before, she would have brushed off both incidents, but now… it was different. But it was good different. Now she belonged entirely, no longer hindered by an association with Mossad.

So why did she feel this way? Why did she want nothing more than to lash out? She wanted to hit something, to destroy it completely. She saw a chisel on the work bench next to her, the chisel she had given Gibbs months ago, and in a flash envisioned driving it again and again into the worktable, hacking away at the wood until it was jagged and pitted.

But her hands remained tightly clasped, white knuckled, resting heavily in her lap. This wasn't right. It couldn't be. She had left this part of her behind, this violence for the sake of violence mentality. This wasn't her, not anymore. But then, why? Why did she feel as though she was spinning out of control while standing still? Why did she feel that one wrong move would push her over the edge? The idea was even more troubling because she didn't even know what that edge was, or what lay on the other side of it.

Before she could straighten the thoughts in her head into any kind of comprehensible order, a soft sound from above forced her back into reality. Every fiber of her being tensed, growing absolutely still until the sound came again—it was a footstep. Whoever it was wasn't trying to be subtle, but it certainly wasn't Gibbs. The steps were heavy, with a slight jaunt. The weight meant male, the jaunt said DiNozzo.

Ziva momentarily panicked. Why was he here? What would he think when he found her there? She wasn't ready for the team to find out about her and Gibbs. She wasn't ready to face the looks on their faces, their questions, their accusations, or, worst of all, their possible silence.

But wait—this was Gibbs' house. Tony would have come here to talk to him. And Gibbs didn't live down in the basement like he used to. She knew for a fact that the last time Gibbs and Tony had talked, it had been over a pair of fire-cooked steaks in the living room. Maybe Tony would wait for Gibbs up there, and won't come down to the basement at all. But that hope was dashed when she heard the footsteps pad around the living room twice… and then thudded towards the basement door.

She stood as the basement door creaked open, and then blinked against the light that flooded through the basement at the click of a switch. Watching Dinozzo make his way down the stairs, she remained still until his eyes finally found her.

"Ziva." His tone betrayed his surprise, but did nothing to curb the smile that spread over his lips. It was genuine, easy and familiar. And ultimately infuriating. How could he smile so effortlessly when she could barely manage to fake it? "What are you doing here?" he asked, jumping the last couple of stairs in a single bound.

"The same as you, I imagine," she returned, putting her mask back on, so that he could not see the irritation clamoring to be noticed. "Waiting for Gibbs."

"Heh, yeah," he said, the smile still there. "Should've guessed that one." He made his way closer to where she stood, his gait unhurried and casual. "I wonder where he is… I mean, it's no surprise you managed to beat him home, but me? No way."

"I am sure he got held up along the away." She forced a smirk. "Perhaps he stopped for coffee."

"A safe bet," Tony agreed. "I bet he didn't think he was getting visitors, because he's usually a pretty good host."

"I am not here to be hosted, Tony," she said. Her words made the smile falter, eliciting a swift confrontation of guilt and triumph within her. But then it was back, just as jovial as before.

"You want to talk too, huh?" came the response. He leaned against the worktable next to her. "You looking for advice or just an ear?"

"I don't know," she found herself saying, her voice reserved. She watched his eyes soften into something that looked like pity. She pulled her mask tighter, and tore her gaze away from him.

"Hey." His voice was audibly tender. The smile was gone, replaced by the serious gaze that told her he was being himself. He wasn't hiding behind his jokes or his references now. And how she wished he would. "It's okay," he said. When she didn't answer, he continued. "Look, Gibbs might not show up for a while. For all we know, he found some hot redhead at the coffee shop and went home with her…" Ziva shot him a hard glare, which made him raise his hands slightly in surrender. "I'm just saying, if you want to talk, I'm here, you're here…"

Her glare turned into an eyeroll. "Tony…" She moved away now, into the center of the basement. But then she felt exposed, and was about to move towards the opposite wall when Tony pushed away from the wall and followed her.

"I know I'm no Gibbs, but—"

"That's right, you are not," she snarled, whirling to face him. Her mask slipped, and she could see the shock in his eyes. The same eyes that had wanted nothing but to help her showed a split second of fear, and seeing it made Ziva's heart feel as if it were gripped in ice. It gave her a moment to reaffix her mask, and rein in the chaos. He couldn't see it, not this. He had already seen her at her most vulnerable, and now the only thing that protected her was her ability to keep him out.

"But don't you trust me?"

The question took her by surprise. She'd expected him to make demands, or to brush it off entirely. But he didn't, and the question he posed could not go unanswered. Nor could she lie.

"I do…" she whispered. He stepped closer to her, too close. For a moment she thought he might try to embrace her, but he stopped a few inches away, his gaze intense.

"Then why not talk to me, Ziva?" he asked. "You don't have to hide from me. I was there too, I saw what it was like—"

Suddenly, without warning, the mask slipped again. "You survived a few hours in the desert, DiNozzo. That does not mean anything."

"It does when no other living person could even come close to actually knowing what you've been through," Tony returned swiftly, this time unfazed by her outburst. "Dammit, Ziva, if you're going to talk to anyone, wouldn't you rather it be someone you trusted, who had some idea of—"

"No!" she nearly shouted. The fire grew within her, burning away at her restraint. "I would not! I would rather it be no one, because I do not want to tell anyone anything! Please respect that!"

She pulled away then, putting more distance between them, no longer trusting herself. The chaos was growing, out of control, and she hated herself for it. She retreated to the far corner, away from the vulnerable open space that had become too crowded, with Tony' close proximity. For a moment, the closer walls were a relief, but were transformed into a prison when her partner again followed her.

He stopped a few feet from her, but the way the work bench hugged the walls around her, she would be unable to slide past him without coming within arm's reach of him. Her pulse picked up, recognizing a threat, though her mind knew that he wouldn't hurt her. But her gut wasn't listening to her brain, and it clenched painfully as the room pulled into sharper focus and her breath came more harshly.

She recognized the signs of her impending panic, though she was more focused on hiding them than she was on preventing them. Normally, she could take a few deep breaths and carefully remind herself of where she was, but if she did that now, Tony would see. He would be concerned, and he would come closer to try and help her, like a good partner would. But right now, she didn't need a partner… she needed Gibbs.

Where was he?

Her eyes looked at Tony, focusing on his familiar face. He wouldn't hurt her, he wouldn't. She was in Gibbs' basement, there was no need to panic. But she was slipping, and her anchor wasn't there. She watched Tony's lips move, but his words jumbled and melded into an unintelligible mess before they could reach her ears. Then, her whole body seized up in panic when his hand came up to touch her face.

The world seemed to slow, and she blinked to clear her head. But when she opened her eyes, both Tony and the basement around them had disappeared. The harsh lighting of the basement had turned into a shadowy, yet golden glow that instantly heated her skin. Suddenly, she was drenched in sweat as she detected the bitter scent of a familiar sandy prison. Tony's green eyes had hardened into soulless dark orbs, and the hand coming towards her was not her partner's, but Saleem's.

She reacted instantly, snatching his hand with a vicious twist. As soon as her skin touched his she heard a shout of alarm, and knew she only had moments before she would be restrained again. She had one chance to free herself, one chance to finish what she came to the desert to do. This time, she would succeed, and she would no longer be trapped like an animal.

This time, she _will_ kill Saleem.

---

Gibbs made his way quickly into the house, knowing as soon as he saw DiNozzo's car in the driveway that he was needed inside. He knew Ziva was home already, and Gibbs had noticed she'd seemed tired and tense at the Navy Yard. And while it was unlikely DiNozzo had come to his home for Ziva, it was a sure bet they had run into each other.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Ziva's raised voice coming through the floor, and immediately headed towards the open basement door. He obtained a visual of both his agents just in time to see Tony move closer to Ziva, who had situated herself in a corner. He knew from one glance at her tense posture and her slightly widened eyes that she was seconds away from a panic attack, and that Tony was way too close. A second later his own panic gripped him when Tony reached out to cup her cheek.

"NO!"

His shout came too late as Tony's hand was caught in an iron grip. Gibbs vaulted over the rail in time to see Ziva strike out at Tony's captured arm with a blow that was intended to snap his arm, followed by three swift strikes to his torso. Tony was forced back by the blows, too taken by surprise to even think about fighting back. He stumbled, and fell back onto the concrete floor, his expression frozen in shock as Ziva swooped down on him. His efforts to regain his footing were thwarted when all of Ziva's weight settled on his chest, forcing him back to the concrete.

Gibbs caught a glimpse of her face when she drew her fist back before slamming it down onto her partner's face, and found it twisted with rage and savage intent. In the space of a moment it was obvious to Gibbs that it was not her partner she was fighting, but someone else entirely, someone from her nightmares. And whoever it was, she didn't want to fight him—she wanted to kill him.

Her fist came down on DiNozzo once more before Gibbs was tackling her, sending them both sprawling. Tony coughed in pain, curling over onto his side, but Gibbs didn't have time to worry about him as Ziva suddenly shifted her attention to her newest attacker. She twisted in his grip, bringing her knee up to slam into his abdomen. He tried to wrap his un-slinged arm around her, to pin her hands to her sides, but she struggled violently. An elbow connected with his sore shoulder and he was momentarily blinded by pain.

The moment was all she needed, and she rolled to her feet swiftly before taking two powerful strides that brought her back to where Dinozzo lay. He had managed to get to his hands and knees, but a sharp kick to his back sent him crashing back down. Ziva was immediately on him, her arm snaking around his neck in an expert move designed to strangle a person with the crook of her arm. It was simple and effortless, and if Gibbs had the time he would admire her tactics, but he knew that he had less than a minute before Tony would be unconscious. Her bicep and forearm were now pressing on his carotid arteries, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. Gibbs knew he needed to act, and he also knew that if he was going to save his senior field agent, he couldn't afford to be gentle.

Ripping off the sling that trapped his wounded arm, Gibbs scrambled to his feet and executed a similar move of his own. He'd hoped his arm hooking around her neck would be enough to startle her, but when she barely blinked at the contact, it became obvious that it wasn't enough. His arm cinched tighter around her throat, and he gave a little yank to catch her attention. She gasped, and her grip on Tony loosened just enough to give Gibbs room to pull her away without causing further damage to the wounded Italian.

He yanked Ziva to her feet, his damaged shoulder burning in agony as the arm around her neck shifted to restrain her shoulders and his free arm clamped down over her arms and midriff. She shouted something in angry Hebrew, and bucked wildly against his hold. He was strong, competent because of his Marine training, but he was also injured, while she was both at full strength and feeling the effects of a fight-or-flight adrenaline rush. It was only a matter of moments before she elbowed him in the ribs, effectively winding him enough to wrench herself free. Tony was too slow in getting to his feet, and she was inches away from the fallen agent when Gibbs rushed towards her again.

Gibbs knew he was losing control of the situation, and he had time for one last ditch effort to subdue her before it reached the point of no return. This time, when his arm latched around her waist, he yanked her back and down, slamming her into the concrete. Guilt lanced through his heart when a cry of pain issued from her lips when she collided with the unforgiving surface, but he didn't give himself time to think before he threw his entire weight on top of her, pinning her with all of his might. This time when she struggled against him, he was able to see the fear in her eyes when she discovered her efforts had been reduced to little more than a frustrated and ineffectual squirm.

"Boss," came Tony's voice from behind him, winded and strained.

"Get out of here, DiNozzo!" Gibbs shouted. For the first time in his career, he couldn't think about both of his agents at once. Now it seemed as if he were trying to deal with three of them, since he had to both subdue and protect the woman grunting strenuously beneath him as she fought to free herself. He couldn't do both with DiNozzo, or whoever Ziva thought him to be, still in the line of fire.

"Boss, don't hurt her," Tony continued stubbornly, getting to his feet. He took a step towards them, which Ziva noticed, causing her to double her efforts. "Don't—"

"GO!" Gibbs' voice echoed in through the basement, reaching a level of fierce desperation that Tony had never heard before. It was enough to force him to obey the older man's orders, and in the next moment he was moving towards the stairs as quickly as his injuries would allow. As soon as Gibbs heard the basement door close, he shifted all of his focus onto Ziva, who had yet to cease her struggling. During the short time in which his interaction with Tony had taken place, her efforts had devolved from those of an experienced operative into the desperate scrabbling of a person gripped by mindless terror.

Small hands pushed helplessly against him, and her eyes squeezed shut against the sight of him. It pained him to realize that _he_ had been the one to put that fear there, his weight pressing what rationality she still had from of her. He could only imagine what her mind predicted he would do next; he knew from her scars that it would be nothing pleasant. But if he continued to move quickly, it was possible he could snap her out of it before her waking nightmare forced her to relive her rape.

"Ziva!" Gibbs said, his voice as non-threatening as he could manage. "Ziva, can you hear me?"

It was immediately evident that his words fell on deaf ears when she managed to gather enough strength to arch her back suddenly, lifting both of them off the floor when she attempted to catapult herself up. But Gibbs was relentless, and managed to use the shift in motion to slide his hands up to frame her face while his elbows dug into her shoulders, continuing to pin her to the stone. His hands attempted to halt the thrashing of her head, which seemed to succeed marginally, but she had yet to open her eyes.

"Open your eyes, Ziva!" he called, his hold on her firm. She didn't respond, nor did she cease her efforts to get free. When a tear escaped her tightly clamped lids and trailed down to pool against the side of his hands, Gibbs knew in his heart that he was losing her. "LOOK AT ME!"

His bellow finally got through to her, and her brown eyes flashed open tearfully. When she first saw him, her efforts redoubled, and this time her fingers turned into claws as she tried to slash at him. His position prevented her from reaching a patch of bare skin, but the advantage was countered when she managed to jar his injured shoulder. Pain flared from his neck to the tips of his fingers, but he refused to let anything more than a grunt escape his lips and his grip on her did not loosen.

"Ziva, look at me," he ordered, his voice firm, but audibly strained from both exertion and the emotion burgeoning within him. When her eyes continued to dart around him, presumably searching for something, anything she could use as a weapon, and when the fear refused to abate, Gibbs brought his own eyes level with hers. He looked deep into her eyes, and finally, after a moment and another firm command, desperate brown orbs latched onto him.

"You know me," he said calmly, trying to break through the wall of panic. He refused to blink, to move even an inch, for fear that she would sink deeper into the flashback. But while her eyes didn't leave his, she never stopped writhing under him, never stopped pushing against him. She was terrified, terrified of him and what she believed would come next, and that knowledge cut him to the core. "You _know_ me," he said once more, the words almost a plea in his own ears. "_You know me_."

A long moment passed, and Gibbs felt the first shadows of doubt creep over him. He didn't know what else he could do. If he let her up she would either do her best to destroy him or she would run, and either possibility in her current state would be devastatingly dangerous. But if he stayed as he was, overpowering her through sheer physical force, then he ran the risk of losing her completely.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her eyes softened, and a flicker of recognition sparked within them. Hope and relief flooded Gibbs, and one hand moved to tenderly brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Her body stilled, but remained tense as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings. He saw the confusion in her gaze, and her breath came heavily as she fought a new kind of panic.

"Ziver…" It came out as little more than a whisper, but the sound of his voice was enough to bring her gaze back to him.

"Jeth—" Her voice caught in her throat as the shock became too much. Tears began to pour from her eyes, and her breaths became increasingly erratic. Hands scrabbled for purchase against his ribs, and he immediately responded to her silent plea for freedom.

He pushed himself off the floor, off Ziva, allowing her to finally move unhindered. She was up in an instant, crawling a few feet from him until she froze, winded and gasping for breath. Gibbs risked moving closer to her, and when she didn't pull away, he moved a little bit closer. But then her entire body tensed, and Gibbs barely managed to slide a nearby pail in front her before she emptied her stomach.

He lifted her hair from her face as she retched, and he saw the tears continue to stream down her cheeks. His heart went out to her, and though he wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, he settled for running his free hand in soft circles on her back. When her stomach finally settled, she was left trembling and rocking as quiet sobs wracked her body.

This time, when Gibbs wrapped his arms around her, his touch was tender and she collapsed against him. He cradled her close, the shoulder of his shirt quickly growing damp from her tears as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath came in short gasps, but even so, he could hear her trying to speak. The words were muffled and disjointed, broken by sobs and brief lapses into Hebrew.

Gibbs let her ramble, even though he couldn't make sense of anything he managed to overhear. He couldn't even tell if she was speaking to him. But he murmured softly to her, and his whispered comfort somehow cut through her confusion to slowly calm her.

But when her trembling didn't cease, he eased off his sportcoat and draped it over her. It did little to ease her shaking, but it seemed to lend her some comfort. Eventually her sobs lessened, and her breathing evened out. He continued to hold her, uncertain of what would happen if he let her go. Unwilling to risk panicking her more, or possibly jostling her too harshly and sending her into another flashback, he refused to do anything more than keep her close.

Finally, when he felt her form grow heavy in his arms, Gibbs looked down and found that her eyes had closed, and judging from her steady, deep breaths, she had fallen asleep. Silently thanking whatever grace that had allowed her that brief respite, he waited a few more minutes to allow her to fall deeper into unconsciousness before carefully bundling her up into his arms. He stood smoothly, and then allowed his feet to bring both of them out of the basement and towards the stairs that led up to the second floor.

He was almost to the staircase when he caught sight of DiNozzo lurking in the living room. The younger man froze as soon as he saw the limp woman in Gibbs' arms, but a sharp shake of his employer's head kept him silent and still. Gibbs was intent on getting his love safe in bed before even beginning to worry about his senior agent. The man was standing and breathing—he would be fine until Ziva was taken care of. But as he made his way up to the bedroom, he heard Tony pad up the stairs behind him. If nothing else, he had to respect the man's devotion, even if in this case it interfered with his ability to be as tender as he wanted to be towards Ziva.

Instead of taking her to their shared bedroom, which was filled to the brim with evidence of their relationship, he took her to the guest room. Its bare walls and impersonal decoration was safe from DiNozzo's investigator eyes, and Gibbs banked on the fact that it was unlikely Ziva would care where she woke up, as long as he was the one there next to her.

He let Tony open the door for him, but the younger man didn't enter the room after him, as if recognizing that, even unconscious, Ziva would need space. Gibbs gently deposited her on the bed, and counted it a victory when she only moaned slightly in her sleep in response. Her hand somehow found his and gripped it tightly, keeping him close to the bedside, and he was only too happy to oblige her. He settled into a crouch by the bed, and after he was certain she was settled comfortably, he turned his attention to the man lingering in the doorway.

"You all right, DiNozzo?" he asked quietly, his voice a low timbre so as not to wake the woman on the bed. He could tell that the younger man was hurting, and that he had already cleaned up a nosebleed.

"Fine, boss," Tony replied in a whisper. His eyes focused nervously on his partner. "Did you…"

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "I didn't knock her out, DiNozzo," he told him. "She fell asleep."

Tony froze for a second, and then tried to cover it with a characteristic scoff and grin. "Well, yeah, I mean, obviously you wouldn't just conk her over the…" He seemed to change his mind mid-sentence, and then the grin disappeared, telling Gibbs the real Anthony DiNozzo Jr. was now making an appearance.

"She okay?"

Gibbs sighed. "No. She isn't." He glanced at Ziva, who still slumbered. "What happened, DiNozzo?"

A moment of silence followed as Tony looked guiltily down at his shoes. "She said she was here to talk to you, but you weren't there, so I thought she might talk to me… She didn't want to, and I pushed too hard." There was note of self-reproach in his voice, and Gibbs knew that he blamed himself for what happened. "I should've seen the signs, boss, but I didn't, and I—"

"You couldn't have," Gibbs interrupted. His firm tone made Tony look up to meet his gaze. "You couldn't have seen it, because she didn't want you to. And until she's ready, we won't know anything she doesn't want us to."

Tony nodded. Gibbs took a moment to fully observe the younger man. His voice was thick, as if his nose was clogged, which Gibbs guessed it was, with blood. His face was beginning to show the deep ruddy purples of fresh bruises on his brow and nose, and his left cheek. The arm Ziva had so viciously attacked was cradled against his side, and the way the Italian stood it was obvious that his ribs were giving him some pain as well.

"DiNozzo." The sound of his name brought the man's attention back to his boss from where it had drifted over to where Ziva lay. "Go to Ducky's. Get yourself checked out." DiNozzo began to protest, but Gibbs wasn't finished. "Call McGee. Tell him not go to go in tomorrow. You all get to start the weekend early."

"What about…?" His eyes flicked towards his partner. Gibbs merely arched an eyebrow in return, and then Tony's grin was back. "Right. Stupid question." His hand came up to tap himself on the back of the head. "That one's on me."

Gibbs grinned in response. "You okay to drive?" he asked. The concerned father in him was speaking up now, despite his obvious inability to let go of Ziva to drive DiNozzo home if the younger man _couldn't_ drive.

"Yeah, boss," Tony responded easily, pushing away from the doorjamb. "Don't worry about me." He turned to leave, but at the last minute turned back to add, "Take care of her, boss." Gibbs shared a look with his agent, and after several long moments, he gave a single nod. Satisfied, Tony returned the nod. "And tell her I'm sorry… for, uh…"

Gibbs shook his head. "She won't need it."

It was true. When she woke up, there was no way she was going to be blaming her partner for what had happened. Her break in the basement was going to set her progress back, and Gibbs would be hard-pressed to convince her it wasn't her fault either. But until she was ready to talk to Tony, Gibbs knew things were going to be tense between his two best agents.

"Right, well…" Tony's voice had regained its audible grin, though his features had yet to show it again. "G'night, boss."

And then the young man was gone, and Gibbs could barely hear his quiet footsteps as he left the house. But as soon as he heard the engine of DiNozzo's car turn over and drive away, Gibbs settled himself for a long wait. He sat next to the bed, quickly nixing the idea of climbing onto the bed behind Ziva. That was not what she needed to wake up to, not when he'd just overpowered her as he had.

So he maintained his grip on her hand as he repositioned himself. His back rested against the bedside table next to the bed, and within moments the sound of Ziva's steady breathing and the shadows of the room had pulled him into a drowsy awareness. But even that awareness dwindled away, until he was sleeping right alongside her. But the dreams he slipped into were turbulent and violent, as he was pitted against Ziva in his basement once more, only this time he was the one who was out of control, and all he could see was her terrified gaze.

He was roused some time later—just as his dreams were becoming unbearable—when his hand jerked. His eyes flashed open, just in time to see Ziva's hand twitch in his. He glanced up to find her slowly coming to, her brow furrowed as she struggled to wake. When her eyes opened, and focused on his form, she barely had time to blink before tears were pooling once more as she recalled what had taken place.

Her hand tightened around his as she looked plaintively into his eyes. "Tony…" she whispered, her voice weak. "Did I…?"

"He's fine," Gibbs answered, his tone gentle. "Bruised, but fine."

"I—I almost…" Her voice petered out, and her free hand came to cover her face, hiding her shame. "I—I lost control…"

"I know." Gibbs didn't know what else to say. What _could_ he say? He'd already given her his advice, weeks ago, and it had led to her storming out. Bringing it up now would be like an 'I told you so', and neither of them needed that.

He settled for reaching up and stroking her hair lightly. The motion was simple, familiar, but ultimately comforting to both of them. She brushed away her tears, and met his gaze once more. When she spoke, her voice was raspy and thick, but her words clear.

"Do you know the worst part of all of this?" she asked. When Gibbs waited for her to continue, she averted her gaze again in shame. "I have not felt this rested in months." Her voice broke at the last, and the tears began to pool again.

"Ziver…"

"Something is wrong with me, Jethro." Her words were clipped, blunt, but mournful all at once. The pain that was so clearly evident pierced his soul, but Gibbs knew there was nothing he could do for her, not yet.

"It's okay," he said. But his heart knew she would disagree. He had once been where she was now, after Shannon and Kelly had died. It had seemed as though nothing in the world was okay, let alone himself… she had to be feeling the exact same way.

"No," she said. Her jaw tightened, and a hard glint appeared in her eyes. Gibbs recognized it, even through the hurt and the guilt and the encroaching despair. He'd recognize it anywhere, especially in her, and the sight of it gave him hope.

It was determination.

"I think…" she continued, her voice quickly gaining clarity. She paused for a moment, and Gibbs waited with bated breath. He waited for the words he'd been hoping for weeks to hear, words that were so long in coming that he'd begun to wonder if they would come at all. But happiness washed through him when the words _did_ come, against all probability.

"I think I should talk to someone."

* * *

_A/N: There you go. End of the Zangst! As you can see, I do NOT think DiNozzo is a villain. I never intended him to be. But for the dissenters regarding my interpretation of the warehouse scene in Masquerade: I was trying to write it from Ziva's point of view. Haven't you ever been so down in the dumps that even the people who are trying to help you seem overly inquisitive and infinitely annoying? I know I have. I usually end up having a heart to heart with them later if they need it, to try and explain why I was so snippy with them, but yeah... Eventually Tony and Ziva will have that in this story. but not for a while, both to give the Zangst a rest and to give Ziva time to let the therapist do her job. _

_Another point of business is regarding the rumors about an as-of-yet unnamed hit TV show that is having issues between its lead actor and its showrunner. Read the article here -- ***see my profile page for links***_ _and make your own assumptions as to which show it is. For the fans of NCIS who prefer to be prepared please look into bringing the issue to the public's knowledge. Many fans are concerned that by the time a show is named, the problem will have been resolved, with possibly the lead actor allowed to leave or actually fired. These concerned fans wish to let the higher ups at CBS know without a doubt that there will be no NCIS without Mark Harmon/Leroy Jethro Gibbs.  
_

_Go to this site for more information on how to show solidarity for our favorite show and our favorite actor--- _***see my profile page for links*  
**

_Thank you for all your support, for both the show, and of course for this story. I'm honored that you're still reading it!  
_


	39. Interlude

Dinner was quiet, Gibbs realized as he picked at his food with his non-dominant, uninjured hand. _Too_ quiet. Gibbs knew something was on Ziva's mind, had been for days. But she had yet to share her thoughts with him.

As far as he knew, the appointments she'd had with the therapist had gone well. Maybe not well, but he had not gotten a call informing him of a suspicious circs case with Ziva as the prime suspect, so Gibbs was fairly certain it was working out. Sometimes she reported to him on what transpired in her biweekly sessions, but other times it was all she could do to make it up the stairs to their bed before immediately falling asleep from what Gibbs could only assume was emotional exhaustion.

It was on those days that Gibbs worried that the therapist may be moving too quickly, or pressing too hard. The therapist had no way of knowing when enough was enough, because Ziva would not tell her. She had committed herself to getting help, and she was determined to finish it through, no matter what. Gibbs was used to that side of her, as was Tony and McGee, and they all accommodated for it. But how could a therapist do the same?

But he kept his silence, because every morning she would rise again and go about her life. She did her job, with more fervor than she had ever shown before, and when she came home she focused on trying to get her relationship with_ him_ back in order. There had been a breach of trust, though Gibbs was surprised to realize one day that he was not really a part of that breach.

Ziva didn't trust herself anymore. She was fine in the field, and in the office, but in the confines of the house, where she was protected—and thereby infinitely more vulnerable—she seemed to be afraid of herself. Physical contact between them was limited, just as it had been in the early months following her rescue, though this time it was not because Gibbs was unwilling to risk scaring or hurting her. This time it was because she was afraid she would hurt him. And Gibbs never pushed it, and could only hope that he would not come to regret giving the suggestion of seeing the therapist in the first place.

As soon as the meal was over and the dishes had been cleared away, Gibbs moved to go upstairs and change into something more comfortable when he was stopped by Ziva's soft voice.

"Could you stay here for a moment?"

The question took him by surprise, but when Jethro glanced back at her and saw her nervous expression, he did not hesitate to return to where she stood. He remained a respectful distance from her, but still within arm's reach, just close enough to offer her silent comfort.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low, as if they might be overheard.

"Nothing," she responded with a shake of her head. "I just need to talk to you about something, and I would rather not do it up there."

"Okay," he said simply. He settled himself in front of her, giving her his undivided attention. He waited patiently as she seemed to gather her thoughts, her gaze avoiding his until she was ready to share.

Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes nervous, but determined. "It is about something Doctor Rodriguez mentioned this week." Gibbs nodded, having already figured as much. "It is something about us." At this, his brow arched in suspicion.

"Oh?" Gibbs wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel that pang of fear in his gut when he considered the possible options her words could mean, but he shoved his doubts away and focused on Ziva.

"She recommended that I think about getting my own place."

The words hit Gibbs like a kick in the gut. His jaw instantly tightened, a ward against responding to rashly before he could figure out how _she_ felt on the subject. Her anxiety over telling him let him know that she would be sensitive to his reaction, and possibly alter her own inclinations. So instead of saying anything, in support or otherwise, he waited for her to continue.

"It would not be permanent, nor would it mean anything about _us_… Well, it would, but not—" She caught herself before she began to ramble. "I think it is a good idea."

"You do?" Gibbs could do nothing to keep the surprise from his voice.

"I am not saying that I wish to be away from you," she added quickly. Her hands gestured harshly, belying her anxiety. "That is the opposite of what I want."

Gibbs gently grasped her upper arm and pulled her over to the nearby couch. He tugged her down to sit behind him, and then took her hand in his when he saw back was ramrod straight, as it always was when she felt defensive. He reached out and carefully tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, which she allowed him to do without protest.

"Take a deep breath," he said softly, looking her in the eye. "Don't worry about what I'm gonna think. Tell me what _you_ think." His thumb traced light circles over the back of her hand, and the movement seemed to calm her slightly as she took his words to heart.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, but the second was cut short when she readied to continue, but then thought better of it at the last moment. Gibbs could almost see her chastise herself for her hesitation before she finally forced herself to bite the bullet.

"I want there to be an us again, Jethro," she said, her words quick. She barely gave time for him to process the words before she went on. "Whatever this is that we are doing now, this…" She paused, searching for the words to define it. But when she came up empty, she simply plowed ahead. "It does not feel how it should. It isn't what we had, and it is not right."

"Ziver—"

"Please, let me finish." Gibbs nodded. "I just—I want things to go back to how they were, I want what we shared before. But we will never get that until I am able to stand on my own two feet, and I no longer use you as a crutch. I need to be able to sleep alone in a bed and live in a home by myself without needing you to keep me focused."

Her gaze darkened, and her eyes left his to focus on her hands instead. "When Tony… when Tony was last here, I could feel myself slipping, but all I could think about was that you weren't there. I needed you to keep me steady, and you weren't there." Guilt lanced through Gibbs, but a moment later Ziva seemed to comprehend what she had just said.

"I do not mean that what happened was your fault," she told him quickly, her eyes once more on him. "My point is that I should not be relying on you for control in the first place. And I do not know how to regain my independence without putting actual physical distance between us."

Gibbs regarded her for a long moment, taking in her tense lips and wary gaze as she waited for his response. He was careful not to let anything show on his expression as he weighed her words. Finally, he looked her once more in the eye.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Her brow furrowed as she looked at him quizzically. "What does that mean?" she asked carefully.

"Depends on exactly what all this means." He bit back a grin at her reaction, but she noticed it, and relief was evident in her features. A moment later there was also an element of confusion.

"I just asked _you_ what it meant," she responded finally.

"I mean, what's your plan? You've put some thought into this, so tell me."

"Oh." Her expression turned slightly sheepish. "Well, I would find my own apartment again. Close, but far enough away that we won't be tempted to revert back to doing things as a couple again, like joint shopping or impromptu dates."

"Impromptu dates, huh? The therapist give you that one?" This time, his grin was clearly evident and earned him a light smack on the arm.

"Hush," she told him with smile of her own. "You know what I mean. I need to function as an individual again. I need to sleep alone, on my own. But Doctor Rodriguez told me that it would not harm my recovery if I called you after I wake up from a nightmare. She says that is one of the things we have been doing absolutely right, no question. That is, if you do not mind…"

"Hey." Gibbs' voice was firm. "Don't ever hesitate to call me." He pegged her with a hard look. "_Ever._ Day or night, whether or not you're living with me, got it?"

He was rewarded with a full blown smile that sent his heart racing. "Deal," Ziva returned.

"How long are you planning to be away?" he asked. At this, Ziva's expression fell.

"I do not know," she told him. "However long it takes, I suppose." It was evident that she was unhappy with the open-ended nature of the plan.

"How about this?" Gibbs started, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "We find you a place, I help you move in, and we give it two months. If you—_you_, not me, not the therapist—if _you_ feel an improvement, we can choose where to go from there. If you want to live there longer, see what happens, that's fine. If you feel well enough to come home, then you move back in with me, and we try to work on getting us back to that _us_ you wanted." He offered her a small grin before continuing on seriously. "But if it doesn't work, if you start feeling worse, you tell me, and you'll come back here and we'll figure something else out. If I see it affecting your ability to do the job, I reserve the right to bring you back here where I can help you."

Gibbs watched as she considered his offer. He could see the wheels turning in his head, and her reservation over the whole thing. But finally she looked at him and nodded in concurrence.

"That seems reasonable," she observed with a husky voice. She cocked her head at him quizzically. "Does that mean you approve of all this?" Before he could answer, her hand came up to stop him. "And, please. Be honest. Do not tell me what you think I need to hear. Now I want to know what _you_ think."

Gibbs smirked. "Well, you didn't get to hear the second part of my conditions," he told her smoothly. "But I'll answer your question: I think it's a good idea."

This took Ziva slightly aback. "You do?"

"I do," Gibbs confirmed. "Because I've been doing some thinking of my own…"

"That always has the potential to be dangerous." Ziva's tone was pure mischief, and was rewarded with another hand squeeze.

"Hush." He smirked at her. "I think we should start over."

"What? Start over… with what? For what?" Her brows rose as she shook her head in confusion. "You have lost me again."

"With us," Gibbs clarified. "I think _we_ should start over."

"Oh." Ziva's voice was small.

"Because you know what I realized, when you left?" His only answer was a silent shake of her head. "I had nothing left of you." He saw her brow furrow again, but didn't let it slow him down. "You've lived here for years now, been a part of my life for longer than that, and the only proof I had that it wasn't a dream were a few knick knacks and a Berretta you left in the upstairs closet. Everything else you kept here, you were able to take them with you, because it was cosmetics, and appliances, and clothes. Everything else was exactly how it was before I fell in love with you… And I was not okay with that."

For a long moment, Ziva was speechless, and Gibbs knew he had taken her by surprise. He hadn't meant for what he had to say to come out so… melodramatic, but now that it had, he realized he couldn't have put it any better. So he received her shocked gaze, and took in all of the emotions he could now see swirling in her wide eyes. When she finally found her voice, it was husky and thick.

"You are upset I did not leave more of my things here when I went to Israel?"

"No, Ziver. I was upset because I hadn't made it possible for you to leave more evidence of your presence in this house, in my life."

"We both made the decision to keep my… _evidence_ in this house to a minimum, to avoid any unwanted questions from those who let themselves when they needed to talk to you. We made that decision so that we could maintain professional boundaries and preserve the chemistry of the team."

"And I think we made the wrong decision," Gibbs responded. "You should have been all over this house. We should have been arguing over where to put the damn frilly pillows on the sofa, or what color to paint the kitchen."

"Frilly pillows? I did not have those even when I still had my apartment."

"You know what I mean. When you had your apartment, that place was all you. You had plants and flowers, and colors that reminded you of Israel. This house doesn't have any of that."

She looked at him for a moment. "But you want it to."

"Yes." There was no question in his voice, no hesitation. "This house should be as much you as it is me. It should be _us_." Gibbs leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded her intently. "I'm already changing the locks on the doors because of our surprise visitor the other night—"

"You have not actually explained that, by the way."

"Later. My point is, why don't we use that to our advantage? This time, the doors stay locked and you and I are the only ones who get keys." He paused when she smirked. "What?"

"The only people who get keys are the only people who do not actually need them. We could simply pick the locks and be done with it."

"Works for me," Gibbs responded. "This house becomes _ours_, surprise visitors be damned." When all he got was a smile, he sighed. "I think that once we move you into your new apartment, we should gut this place. New furniture, new decorations, new floors, new paint, you name it. And when things get better, the two of us decide together what we want the house to look like."

He looked at her with expectedly. "What do you say?"

Silence persisted for several long moments as she mulled over his words. Finally, a small grin lit her features as she gave her answer.

"I think…" she said carefully, her tone bright, "that it is a _great_ idea."

"Really?"

"Yes." Now her voice held the slightest note of surprise. "I think I would like that a lot, when the time comes."

"It's a plan then."

"Yes. Definitely a plan."

This time she was the one to give his hand a squeeze, and she smiled at him with absolutely no reservation. Gibbs was awestruck as he caught a glimpse of the old Ziva, unguarded and unrestrained by her nightmares, and the most beautiful sight he'd seen in months.

"Hey," he said softly, bumping her leg gently with his knee. She met his gaze. "I will _always_ want you here," he declared. "I think this living on your plan is a good idea because I want what's best for you. But your home is always here. And I don't care if you move across the country—I love you. You know that, right?"

"I do," she told him, her voice serious. "I know that. That is something I will never again forget." She paused. "However, after this summer… I realized something very important."

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm… I realized that when it comes to homes, location does not really matter. It is who you are with that makes a place a home." She gave him another smile, this one slightly sheepish."Which is why I know—in my _gut_—" she grinned as she referred to his infamous organ of intuition, "that no matter what, this independence dilemma will resolve itself sooner rather than later." She sighed. "I have been too long without a home to give this one up indefinitely."

Gibbs sat silently as she finished, unable to deny the relief and the joy he felt coursing through his veins. He had been given the reassurance he hadn't known he'd needed, and he instinctively knew that everything would be okay. He was so deep in his thoughts that he almost missed the soft voice that drifted to his ears.

"_Ani ohevet otcha_."

When Gibbs glanced up, he saw that Ziva's expression had softened, and her eyes sparkled in the dim light of the living room. The look she gave him now was tender and loving, unashamed of the emotion she was allowing him to see. He didn't understand the Hebrew words, but their intent was undeniable. She translated anyways.

"I love you." Her voice was lighter than it had been a few moments ago, as if some invisible weight had been lifted from it. Though he didn't want to think about it too hard, Gibbs knew that it was because, for a few short moments, she could forget about her demons, her scars, and all that she had lost.

"_Ani ohevet otcha," _Gibbs returned, trying his hand at the foreign sounds. Her eyes lit up in delight, but her mouth curled into a smile as she tried to choke back a laugh. Gibbs gave a brief eyeroll before giving a smirk of his own. "My pronunciation was that bad, huh?"

"No," she protested, still stifling her laughter as best she could, "your pronunciation was nearly perfect… if you were intending to profess your love to a man."

Confusion made itself known as Gibbs attempted to comprehend her meaning. "What?"

"I will explain it to you later," Ziva murmured softly, leaning in to capture his lips with hers. "I know what you meant."

---

It took nearly three weeks for them to find the right apartment, even though they had begun looking the day after they had agreed to the arrangement. More than a few had been misrepresented in the ads, while others were eliminated for not meeting one or both of their personal standards. Though Gibbs was mostly tagging along with Ziva to merely lend his opinion, she had found is insight into structure stability invaluable.

The first apartment they had looked at had been dismissed as soon as Gibbs noticed the sagging floor in one corner of the bedroom, while the second had turned out to be in too loud an area, between the near-constant Dulles flights overhead and the jam-packed highway just outside the living room window.

Another had fallen victim to the cutting block when Ziva saw that the kitchen space was barely more than an efficiency. It was then that Ziva had revealed her intentions to recultivate her penchant for cooking in her bid for personal independence—the slightly put-out expression on Gibbs' face at the realization that she would be cooking without him being able to help her eat it had been answered with a shoulder-bump and whispered promise that she would smuggle him the leftovers, regardless of what her therapist might think.

Quite a few other apartments were simply too far from the Navy Yard to be practical, and others too close to Gibbs' house to meet the psychologist's instructions. Their second-to-last viewing had lasted all of ten seconds when they had stepped into the small apartment to see nothing but what had been advertised as "urban", which apparently meant cinderblock walls and a single window in the whole place. Ziva had immediately paled at the thought of spending two months in the place, which told Gibbs it was disconcertingly similar to where she had been kept over the summer—he had turned them both right around and returned to the car without saying a word to the leaser.

Ziva had been discouraged, and was just about ready to abandon the idea altogether when Gibbs suggested they make one last showing before making the decision to wait a few more weeks. It turned out to be a good thing he managed to talk her into it, for the apartment they saw that afternoon had been exactly what they had been looking for.

It was simple, with only one bedroom, one bathroom, and one living room. But the kitchen it boasted was large and up-to-date with all the most modern appliances, including an Electrolux stove and stainless steel refrigerator with double doors and the latest Thermador "combination" configuration of ovens. The walls were a muted off white color, which worked with high ceilings and many windows to make the rooms seem much larger than they actually were. Ziva had been especially smitten with the bath as well, which featured both a shower and a Jacuzzi tub. Gibbs' mind instantly acted as he expected DiNozzo's would have, and as soon as he saw the bath tub he imagined the fun they might have had in a bathroom like that. He caught Ziva's eye as soon as he realized the implications of his thoughts, and he knew that she was perfectly aware of what had been running through his mind. He had almost felt guilty for it, but then he saw the uncharacteristic blush creep up her neck and to her cheeks, and he knew that she had been having similar thoughts of her own.

As soon as they had signed the dotted line that made the apartment hers, they had returned to the house to begin packing. They worked diligently, and by the following evening she was essentially moved in, save for the furniture that would be delivered later in the week. In the midst of packing they had also gone about deciding what they wanted to keep in the house when the time came for her to return. Everything else was thrown into the dumpster they had rented, and the unwanted furniture was left at the curb for anyone who wanted to take it. By the time they were done, the house was an empty shell of what it had been. The only room that had remained untouched was the basement, which Ziva had declared was off-limits.

There had been a long week of nervous nights for Gibbs after Ziva had driven off to her new apartment. In the dark of the night he realized it might not have been the best idea to clear out the house so soon. Now the place seemed even more empty, Ziva's absence all the more poignant in the chill of the lonely home.

But Gibbs didn't speak a word of his own loneliness to Ziva; not at the office, or when she called to check in on him each night. The phone calls were frequent, sometimes more than once a night. The first few days spent on her own seemed to be the worst, as the lack of his presence in the bed beside seemed to aggravate the usual effects of her nightmares.

Every time she woke up trembling and soaked in a cold sweat, she called Gibbs, and Gibbs always answered, no matter the hour. She didn't really share her nightmares with him, but he had a good enough idea of what they were about to know what to say to calm her. He remained patient, and considered it a job well done in the few instances he realized that she had fallen back to sleep before managing to hang up on him.

But the loneliness was not the only thing that affected Gibbs in her absence—with her a half hour away, and his arm still in a sling, he had no way to get himself to the Navy Yard and back each day. He had refused Ziva's offers to come by and get him in the mornings, with her new apartment closer to the Navy Yard than the house was. It didn't make sense for her to drive over to the house and then go all the way back to the Navy Yard, so he instead partook of another of DiNozzo's favorite pastimes—hazing the Probie.

While Gibbs' justification was that he had saved McGee's life, rather than simply outranking the younger man, he still got a perverse satisfaction out of seeing the computer genius jump through hoops for him. However, the satisfaction ended as soon as McGee had personally taken it upon himself to make sure Gibbs had groceries and food and the like. If he'd wanted to hear cracks about the new décor of his living room—which was completely bare save for the couch and the odd cardboard box—he wouldn't have bothered to put new locks in all his doors.

Gibbs sighed as he half-listened to McGee's latest report of his fridge's contents, catching something about fish food—wait, he had _fish_? He'd have to ask Ziver about that one later when she called.

Only seven more weeks to go, he reminded himself. Seven weeks until he could entertain the idea of Ziva coming home. Gibbs hoped that she progressed as quickly as he could anticipate, if only so that she could rescue him from McGee's well-meaning ministrations. Speaking of, something caught Gibbs' attention as McGee continued to ramble, his senses immediately going on alert.

_Fish food?_ Gibbs asked himself silently.

Last he checked, no one in their right minds could mistake one of Ziva's the T-bone from yesterday for _fish food_...

* * *

_A/N: Don't worry, there is no way I am overlooking all the newest developments with Damon. But for the sake of the fluidity of this particular story, I think anything with Damon and anything with the Tramp will be relegated to **Something Extra**. I want to move some things along in this story that will be all too slow in coming if I worry about Damon at the moment. _

_Expect some juicy updates in the near future!  
_


	40. Unwelcome Discovery

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon in the suburbs, with only the occasional call of a bird to break the small-town feel of the neighborhood, when the abrasive pop and rattle of a brick red 1931 Ford Coupe hot rod came cruising down the street. It was a strange sight to see in a neighborhood such as that, but not nearly so strange as the woman behind the wheel.

The car pulled up across the street from an unassuming single family home and the car door opened to reveal a tall, pale woman decked out in a short black miniskirt and skull-adorned baby-doll t-shirt. The ensemble was completed by big chunky heels that gave the woman an extra three inches to her already impressive height. And to the surprise of anyone watching, the strange woman popped open a black lace parasol before she even bother to close the door behind her.

To many of the residents of the small suburban neighborhood, the woman was an enigma. But to her coworkers, she did not seem quite so odd. For she was Abigail Sciuto, forensic specialist extraordinaire. To her colleagues and friends, she was not weird, or quirky, or nonsensical. To them she was simply Abby, a classification in and of herself.

And on this quiet Saturday afternoon, Abby Sciuto was on a mission. Her mission, should she choose to accept it—which she already had—was to locate and to talk to her silver-haired fox, one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. She had meant to drag him out for dinner the night before, but he had disappeared before she'd had a chance to do so. And considering the reason she had wanted to kidnap him in the first place—which was the observation that the boss-man was completely and utterly exhausted—she had decided against following him home in the hopes that he would take the opportunity to get some much needed rest.

She vaguely recalled someone mentioning that he would not be in town this weekend—or was it next weekend?—so it was entirely possible that he would not even be around for her to mother. If he was in fact _not_ home, he would be visiting his father up in Stillwater, and Abby knew as a matter of fact that he absolutely refused to spend Sundays with his father. Because if he did spend Sunday with his father, Jackson would drag his son to church for the better part of the morning, for which Gibbs had absolutely no patience or tolerance. So if Gibbs wasn't home, Abby was fully prepared to wait inside until he came home later that evening. And then she would be able to mother him to her heart's content, because Gibbs never ever said no to her.

But when she reached Gibbs' door and tried to turn the knob… It wouldn't open. And it wasn't that the door was stuck—which had happened before. The knob wouldn't even turn. It was _locked_. Abby glared at the door in puzzlement.

Gibbs never locked his door. Never, ever, ever in all the time she'd known him. His door was always open, especially to her. Suddenly, Abby wondered what must have happened to prompt Gibbs to suddenly change his habits. Because Gibbs doesn't change his habits until it becomes evident that they are no longer efficient. That's why he had his rules after all… He made a new rule each time he made a mistake himself. Like that time he had been without a knife, and his partner had nearly died because of it.

Oh. Had the Director been that partner? Abby smirked. If Jenny had been the one, the Goth would put money on the likelihood that it had been the Director who'd gotten the two of them out their predicament. But she really shouldn't call Jenny the Director anymore, could she? Because she wasn't the Director anymore. Jenny was… with Kate. But Jenny had been the best Director ever. She'd been better than Director Morrow, and better than Shady Director Vance. Abby shook her head. That didn't really matter anymore, did it? Jenny was gone, Gibbs had a new rule, and… how had she gotten to this topic?

Oh, yeah. The dilemma of the stubborn locked doorknob. Well, if she were Ziva, she could just pick the lock. And according to Timmy, if she were Tony she could simply send a rock through the window. And if she had access to her lab at the moment she could fabricate a solution so caustic that it would eat away the components of the lock until she could turn the knob with ease.

As it was, however, Abby needed to re-think her plan. Well, not so much. She could still wait, just not in the comfy shade of inside Gibbs' house. She glanced up at the offending sun briefly, and then promptly made the executive decision to wait in her car until she saw Gibbs' Challenger pull into the drive.

She trotted down off the porch and across the lawn. Careful to look both ways before stepping into the road, it was only a few short moments before she was safe inside the confines of her baby. She then settled in for a long wait, turning on the latest album from Suicide Commando. She grinned as she reaped the benefits of the custom designed sound system she had personally installed in her hot rod.

The first time Timmy had seen it, he had seemed shocked that someone would put such high tech gadgets in such an old classic, but she had then informed him that her baby was just like her… full of contradictions. And to his credit, he hadn't actually said anything either way about it. Just another reason why Timmy was one of her most favorite people in the world. But Gibbs was her absolute favorite, just like she was _his_ favorite.

Sadly, even Abby's entertaining thought processes weren't enough to keep her occupied, and not fifteen minutes after returning to her car she was bored out of her mind. Her hands itched to do something, and her legs were suddenly feeling very cramped under the steering wheel. People didn't exactly think to accommodate boots like hers when they were designing Ford Coupes in the 1930s, she surmised.

How did Team Gibbs not go insane on their many stakeouts? Oh wait… McGee had told her once. Pranks! Ooh, she liked a good prank. She had almost gotten caught once back in college when she and her friends had rebuilt the TA's rinky dink toy car in his dorm room. But she couldn't use her prank expertise to help her here. The only person she could prank was herself at the moment, and that wouldn't be any fun.

Suddenly, Abby was startled by a sharp rapping on her window. Glancing up, she saw a sour-looking old lady glaring down at her. For a moment she tried to roll down her window, but then remembered it didn't like to function properly in the afternoons. So instead she opened the door and climbed out once more, sliding open her parasol as she smiled happily at the lady staring up at her.

"Hi, ma'am!" Abby's polite and chipper tone softened the woman's features, almost to the point where her almost didn't look quite so beak-like.

"Hello, dear," the woman warbled, the glare now completely gone from her features. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh, no thank you. I'm just waiting for Agent Gibbs." A lace-gloved finger came up to point across the street. "He lives right there, but he's not home yet."

"He definitely must not be if that ghastly yellow and black thing he calls a car is gone," the woman observed haughtily before she realized what she had said. She gasped lightly, and covered her mouth with a withered hand. "Don't tell him I said that now," she admonished.

"Oh, don't worry ma'am. Your secret is safe with me."

Abby's assurance elicited another approving smile. "You are quite a lovely young woman," she said appraisingly. "So polite, too. So unlike that foreign tramp young Leroy usually lets hang around him."

Abby's eyes widened. Foreign tramp? _Young_ Leroy? Well, the young part made sense, considering the woman in front of her seemed about twenty years older than Gibbs. But who was this woman the biddy was referring to? A new lady friend? But—why wouldn't Gibbs have told her about a new lady friend? That would explain why he was tired, Abby reasoned, especially if it was a _new_ new lady friend. She knew on a first-hand basis how exhausting a new relationship could make someone. She had to bite back a mischievous grin as she recalled some of her past exploits.

"Always coming and going, with those shifty dark eyes of hers. I don't trust her at all. And you know you can never be too careful these days when it comes to those Arab folks, after the tragedy of 9/11. If Leroy wasn't already a federal agent, I would have called the cops on that tramp the moment I saw her."

Hm. That was odd. Well, not the lady's anti-terrorism sentiments. Abby found that to actually be somewhat normal of older citizens, particularly those who hailed from smaller towns. They saw terrorists on every corner, and were suspicious of anyone who had darker skin… Though Abby thought darker skin was beautiful on the right person, like Ziva. Her skin was so pretty, especially with her dark eyes—

Wait. Ziva had dark eyes, just like whoever the old woman was describing. And there were often times those eyes could be described as shifty. Abby had seen it herself, when Ziva was contemplating some way to rattle Tony, whether through a prank or some stealthy ninja moves to sneak up on him.

But what would she be doing at Gibbs' place? Well, probably the same thing Abby herself was doing there—wanting to talk to Gibbs. And with everything Ziva had gone through, it would make sense for her to want to talk to somebody who she trusted…

But it couldn't be Ziva. Ziva was too stoic to come to Gibbs often, so she _couldn't_ have been hanging around long enough to be considered a tramp like the lady said. Come to think of it, it didn't seem likely that she would have come to Gibbs at all. Abby had noticed that Ziva was much more reserved than she used to be, and spoke not at all of anything vaguely personal. Before, she would share some of her dating stories with Abby—which actually hadn't happened for while even before she stayed in Israel last spring—or she would tell Abby stories of little things she noticed about other people.

Abby's favorite story was the one where a frazzled young mother of four was in the supermarket and was trying to keep her eldest from pulling things off the shelves and the middle two from getting into a wrestling match right there in the store, all the while unaware of the youngest child's fascination with throwing the items she placed in the cart right back onto the floor again.

Ever since Ziva had come back, she and Abby hadn't had any of those kinds of talks anymore. They only ever talked about cases, and as far as Timmy and Tony had told her, it was the same for them too. So no, it couldn't be Ziva. So if not Ziva, then who? Hmmm… Abby's interest was definitely peaked. She and her silver-haired fox were going to have to have a very long talk when he got back.

"My dear," the old woman said, capturing Abby's attention once more, "you look like you could use a nice cup of tea… Would you like to come inside?"

"No thank you, ma'am," Abby declined, quickly recognizing that any further discussion with the woman would inevitably involve more racist paranoia. However, Abby would bet the old lady would have lots of juicy secrets to spill about Gibbs and his new lady friend… But, no.

Abby would make Gibbs tell her everything, like he should have done in the first place. "I think I might go and get some ice cream instead. Gibbs told me to try the place just around the corner." Though what he called right around the corner was really twenty minutes of the twistiest and turniest roads just to get to the little mom and pop shop. "I appreciate the offer though."

"Oh, my pleasure, dear. Do come by and visit the next time you come by the neighborhood. It is so difficult to find decently pleasant company these days."

Abby assured the woman she would before trundling herself back into her Coupe. She waved goodbye to the old lady and rattled away down the street. Twenty-five minutes later, she was enjoying her favorite ice cream of chocolate chocolate chip. She smiled as she licked the drips off the cone. If all stakeouts included ice cream breaks, she could definitely appreciate them more.

She waited until she was done with her ice cream before she returned to her car—there would be no chocolate stains on _her_ seats! This time though, when she neared Gibbs' house, she parked a few streets over, so that she could stretch her legs a bit. The sun was slowly dimming from the growing blanket of winter clouds—maybe they'd get snow again—so she was not so concerned about her ivory skin. She still took her parasol though, just to be safe.

As she rounded the corner onto Gibbs' street, the first thing she noticed was the car that had appeared in his driveway. Excitement flared within her for a moment before she realized that the car was not the one she had been expecting. It was not the classic Charger that Gibbs drove. It was a simple two-door sedan, dark in color and ultimately nondescript. Whose was it?

Abby slowed her pace, approaching the house slowly. There was no one inside the vehicle, and there was no one sitting on the porch, which meant whoever drove the mysterious car was inside the house. They'd gotten past that stubborn, traitorous doorknob and into the safety of Gibbs' home. Suddenly, Abby spotted a flash of movement through the living room window.

Abby peered carefully through the front window, and saw a shadowed form move around Gibbs' house. The movements of the silhouette were swift and sure—not the frenzied searchings of a burglar looking for valuables to take. It was as if the form knew exactly what it was looking for, and where exactly it was in the house. It moved from the kitchen to the living room, and then disappeared briefly upstairs. Abby remained outside, wary of entering the house with the unknown guest within.

A moment later the stranger was back, trotting down the stairs with fluid grace. Another few moments passed as the stranger seemed to gather his belongings, and then moved to leave. Abby stood frozen where she was by the oak tree in Gibbs' front yard, first in apprehension, and then in shock as the form stepped through the open door and into the sunlight, revealing the stranger's identity in stunning clarity.

Ziva. The golden skin and brown eyes and black hair Abby had just been thinking about a few minutes ago were all too familiar to mistake as someone else.

_Ziva?_ Abby was at first shocked, but then relaxed when she realized the newest agent must have picked the lock. After all, hadn't Abby just told herself that Ziva could easily pick the lock? But then the shock returned when Ziva turned back to pull the door closed, and then slid a key into the door's deadbolt and secured the house from any other curious visitors.

In a single instant, a wash of conflicted notions flashed in Abby's mind. Echoes of the old lady's ramblings about a foreign tramp hanging onto Gibbs all the time, and the exhaustion Gibbs had been exhibiting lately— It all made sense, and centered on Ziva as the piece of the puzzle that linked all of it together. And with that realization came hurt, confusion, betrayal, and anger. More anger than Abby had ever felt in her life.

As if her limbs had a life of their own, Abby stalked towards Ziva, who had yet to turn back around. When her boots stomped on the concrete of the porch stoop, the sound finally caught the attention of the smaller woman. Ziva turned around quickly, just in time to catch a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye as Abby stormed closer.

Before she had a chance to react, Ziva's head snapped to the side under the sharp force of Abby's hand cracking down on her left cheek. Her entire body tensed under the assault, but her eyes darted towards her attacker, whose familiar face kept her frozen in place as all thoughts of retaliation fled her mind.

"Abby?"

"How dare you!" Abby's voice came pouring from her blackened lips without fully recognizing it as her own. She glared at Ziva with all of her might, unable to say anything else through her shock.

Ziva tried again. "Abby, what are you doing here?"

"No, what are _you_ doing here, Ziva?" Abby shot back angrily. She recognized her voice now, and now she found that she could not stop. "Why are you using keys to get into Gibbs' house when he isn't here?" Suddenly, she shook her head. "Actually, you know what? Don't answer that. You don't have to! Because as much as I am actually wishing you're just doing that sneaky spy stuff you're so good at doing, I know you're really just here for a booty call."

"Abby, please—"

"No, Ziva! You don't get to say anything! How could you? How could lie to all of us like this? How could you lie to Tony? Actually, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. We all know by now how much you like keeping secrets, and how good you are at doing it. How long were you planning on keeping this one, huh? Until someone else gets a broken arm, or another person you love dies?"

Abby's voice was searing, her words cutting and biting with a hundred times the vehemence she had used that day she had confronted her friend about her doubts for Tony. The Goth could see the hurt in Ziva's eyes as she continued to fire shots at her, but the younger woman didn't say a word.

"And now you've got Gibbs lying for you! As if you hadn't done enough to hurt this team! You had to go and sink your claws into Gibbs and make him hide it from us. Why? Was your application for becoming a citizen not going quickly enough? Is that why you suddenly feel the need to jump into Gibbs' bed? Or maybe you don't want to be just a Probie anymore, is that it? Hoping to sleep your way to the top? That's certainly one way to one up on DiNozzo!"

The sound of Tony's name seemed to jolt Ziva like an electric shock, and Abby took sick satisfaction from it.

"What, you didn't think that we'd figure it out eventually? You think Tony wouldn't have been devastated? He risked his life for you, and all you can do thank him is sleep with his boss?" At this, Abby's eyes began to well with tears, which only angered her more. "You know, when I first saw you, I hated you for standing up for Ari. But then when I saw you, after the team brought you home, I was so happy, because I had my friend back after I'd thought she was dead. My _best_ friend." She shook her head, making her pigtails swing violently. "Then you do this. I don't know what I ever saw in you, that I let you trick me into trusting you. You're a coward, and a liar."

Abby turned to leave, having said her piece and unwilling to let Ziva try to make excuses. She almost made it off the porch before she halted, and then turned back to face Ziva one more time. The shorter woman had not moved an inch during Abby's tirade, save to lift her head after the harsh blow that had been delivered. Now she stood tall, her face a mask of careful non-emotion that let none of her earlier hurt show. Seeing it made Abby pause, but could not keep one last parting shot from slipping past her lips.

"I wish you'd never come back."


	41. Hopeful Understanding

It turned out that Sunday didn't prove to be any better, since Abby received a call midmorning asking her to come into the lab. Team Gibbs had caught what could be a big break in their case when Metro PD called to inform them the vic's brother had been arrested, and they were all called in, Abby included. As a result, Abby was still fuming over the events of the afternoon before as she began to warm up Major Mass Spec and his mechanical compatriots. She didn't bother bringing her customary morning Caf-Pow, and her music was more screeching and angry than her usual choice of accompaniment while in the lab.

But even without her infusion of her daily caffeine, she still processed her evidence with lightning-quick speed. But when Gibbs came down to visit her—right on time, as usual— she responded with business-like precision. There was none of her usual ramblings, and she refused to even look at Gibbs. She couldn't—she knew if she did, she would break down completely, and she didn't want him to know how bothered she was. Or about what had her so affected.

To his credit, she knew he noticed something was wrong anyway. He tried to ask her, but she brushed him off, instead retreating to her inner sanctum. There was something satisfying about letting him stew in his ignorance, leaving him in the dark when for the past who knows for how long she had been the one in the dark. So when he stormed out in his characteristic manner a few minutes later, she felt only the slightest bit guilt. And that little sliver of guilt was easily ignored in favor of the anger still churning in her gut.

She continued to go about her business, and kept going until she could no longer work past her growling stomach. Normally her Caf-Pows took care of those pesky hunger pains, but without her morning dose, they had kicked in full-throttle. She tidied her lab and put away the open evidence, just in case someone decided to come in and put their fingers where they didn't belong. Finally, she left her lab, intent on going to find her own Caf-Pow, and even that made her angry. Usually she didn't have to find her own caffeine once she entered her lab—Gibbs was the one who supplied her habit. But with her not on speaking terms with him… She growled in frustration.

She was not at all happy with the situation.

She took the long way to the Caf-Pow stand in hopes of avoiding the rest of the team—she didn't want to see Timmy or Tony, not with the secret she too was now forced to carry. She wasn't sure she could keep the secret, if either of them asked what was wrong, but she didn't want to be the one to tell them the news. It wasn't her place and she shouldn't be forced into that situation, so she navigated the subterranean hallways through the basement of the building, careful to avoid any avenues that could lead her towards other people.

But when she heard voices ahead of her, in the one hallway she couldn't avoid, her irritation grew. She crept closer towards the muffled, hushed voices—which happened to also be in the only direction that would lead her to the Caf-Pow vendor—in an attempt to identify them. She'd hoped no one would be down there with her, as there hardly ever was, but it seemed luck was not with her.

As she inched closer, she discerned one voice as male, and the other female. It wasn't until she was just around the corner from the voices that she was able to recognize the lower voice, which spoke in a voice that was barely more than a soft rumble.

It was Gibbs.

Which meant that the woman he was sharing his hushed conversation with had to be Ziva.

Abby knew from memory that the hallway they now occupied was fairly long, and from the sound of their voices they were at the far end. That knowledge emboldened Abby enough to peek around the corner, just enough to give her a clear view of the pair as they quietly conversed.

The hallway sloped up from its mostly underground setting, allowing there to be a large window that let natural light pour into the hallway. Ziva was leaning back against the window, sitting on the tiny ledge it provided. Gibbs stood in front of her, coffee in hand, his posture relaxed. As Abby focused on the couple, she was able to discern what they were saying.

"There might be an angle we haven't considered yet," Ziva remarked softly. Abby could only see half the probationary agent's face from her current position, but even then the Goth could see Ziva's expression was reserved, and her voice was careful. "I think there may be some evidence that could link the brother to the crime scene."

"I'll check with Abby later to see if she found anything connecting him to vic's personal effects," Gibbs responded, taking after a sip of his coffee. "If I can figure out why she's mad at me."

At that Ziva's head shot up, her eyes wide as she looked at Gibbs.

"You have already seen Abby today?"

Gibbs looked at her, shifting ever so slightly on his feet. "Yeah," he said simply, drawing out the word in his usual manner. "You know something I don't?"

Ziva's gaze fell then, and her head dipped. Her hair, which was straightened and left loose about her shoulders, slid forward and obscured her features. Abby could see her knuckles whiten as they gripped the window ledge tightly.

"That is why I asked you down here," Ziva admitted, her voice strained. Abby saw Gibbs' expression tighten, though whether it was anger or not, the Goth couldn't tell. "I wanted to tell you today, before we came into the office tomorrow, but since that did not exactly—"

"Stop stalling, Ziver." At the sound of Gibbs' voice, Abby knew in an instant that he was more concerned than angry, with only a pinch of impatience in his tone. It seemed Ziva could hear the impatience as well, because the agent sighed before shaking the hair from her eyes to meet Gibbs' gaze.

"Abby knows."

Abby froze where she stood, even though she had anticipated the revelation. Ziva's tone was succinct and to the point. But regardless of her bluntness, Gibbs didn't seem to comprehend her meaning.

"Abby knows… what?"

"About us." Again, her tone was blunt, almost brutally so. This time, Gibbs visibly tensed for a moment, but then let it go with a sigh. His shoulders dropped, and an indescribable expression crossed his features.

It seemed to make Ziva nervous, as she began to try and explain. "I was at the house on Saturday, and she confronted me on my way out." Her hands began to rub together nervously. "I was there for no more than five minutes, Jethro, but…"

Gibbs moved to sit next to her, on the far side of the woman from where Abby stood. He leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on his knees. "She confronted you? That could have been… volatile." He shot Ziva a sidelong glance, a small grin on his face. But to Abby's keen eye, she could tell it was slightly forced. "Full scene mode?"

Ziva didn't bother to share his attempt at humor. "Worse." Her head tilted back, and her eyes drifted across the ceiling as her lips pressed into a thin line. "I have never seen her so…" When she could not find an adequate word to fill the blank, she merely shrugged. Her head dipped again, this time her gaze focusing on her hands, which continued to worry each other.

Gibbs turned to face her. His hand reached over and stilled her hands with a gentle touch.

"Hey." This time, there was no mistaking his concern, even from Abby's position around the corner. "What did she say to you?" Ziva looked away, but didn't answer. "Ziva." Her name had been turned into a command, but she shrugged it away.

"It does not matter." Her voice was suddenly thick with emotion, and for a moment Abby felt the first pangs of guilt. She hadn't really thought about what she would say before confronting Ziva the day before, and the words that had poured from her lips had been a knee-jerk reaction. It was obvious they had affected Ziva, and to know that she had been the one to make her look so vulnerable…

But the guilt didn't last long, as she remembered the reason the two agents were having a secret rendezvous in the basement in the first place. Because they couldn't trust their friends enough to tell them the truth. And then the anger was back with a vengeance.

"It does matter, Ziva," Gibbs was continuing. "It matters."

"She did not say anything I did not deserve, Jethro." Her voice was almost inaudible now, so soft it had become. But then something that sounded like a weak laugh found its way to Abby's ears. "You know, I had been thinking about telling them."

"Really?" Gibbs couldn't keep the surprise from his voice, and Ziva seemed to misinterpret it as skepticism.

"I would not have done it without talking about it with you first," she assured him quickly. "You know that. But—at some point I realized I hated what we were doing. At some point, this…" She waved her hand in vague reference to herself and Gibbs. "_Us_, keeping our secret. It felt less like we were maintaining our privacy than we are sneaking around, as if this is wrong. As if _we_ are wrong." She turned to look at him now.

"And there is _nothing_ wrong with us. As a probationary agent, I have read the manual, and many of the agency's policies, and the only thing that is mentioned about agents engaging in a personal relationship is that is not recommended and _if_ they allow it to affect their work, one or both may be reassigned within the agency. The only thing keeping us from letting the world know about us is _your_ rule. And as much as I know your rules are like law—" she shot him a barely-there grin, which he returned, "it no longer felt worth it to keep lying to everyone."

"It's not just a matter of this being just between agents. It's also between supervisor and agent. Your career could be affected by how much people know about us."

Ziva barked out a laugh. "Career? Jethro, I am not going to have any kind of career here. At least, not the kind you are thinking of. I am never going to be promoted, not after everything that has happened."

"Ziver…"

"Think about it, Jethro. A former Mossad assassin whose brother was a traitor and a terrorist, and has just spent months in the desert being interrogated by other terrorists. I am lucky Vance allowed to even become a field agent. There is little to no chance I will be trusted beyond that." She sighed. "And even if there was a chance I could be promoted—if it meant I couldn't share my life with you, I wouldn't want it anyway."

"So you're glad someone knows?"

Ziva sighed. "Yes. No." She shook her head. "I did not want anyone to find out like _that_. By accident. Especially not Abby. I meant what I said when I did not want to damage your relationship with her."

"And what about _your _relationship with Abby?" Gibbs asked. "You know you matter to her, too."

Ziva scoffed. "Not likely, at the moment. I am fairly she will never forgive me. When I first imagined her reaction to finding out, I had thought she would come around eventually… I am no longer so certain."

Abby's jaw tightened as she listened to the conversation. This was not what she had expected to hear. In some strange way, she would have felt better had Ziva been as angry as Abby herself had been, or if she were complaining of how Abby had been hanging around Gibbs' house the day before.

But hearing the hurt in her friend's voice, the tender emotion in a voice that threatened to break—it was something Abby had only heard once before, that afternoon she had tried to get Ziva to go out with her to celebrate the conclusion of her first case back. Ziva had declined, politely, and in such a delicate voice that Abby had found it impossible to fight her on it. Then and now, it was so unlike the Ziva she knew that it made Abby's heart hurt.

It broke through the haze of anger that had shrouded her since yesterday afternoon just long enough for the Goth to see the truth of the moment unfolding before her. Gibbs and Ziva were sitting in an abandoned hallway—well, mostly abandoned, except for her—having a private conversation, and holding hands. They were both so comfortable, and Abby could see that nearly all of their walls were completely down.

And this was Gibbs and Ziva, the two most carefully-guarded people in the entire agency, who had the most walls she had ever seen in two human beings.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Gibbs spoke now.

Ziva shrugged. "It was never anything more than a thought. And with everything that has been going on, it did not seem prudent."

"Do you want to tell the others?" Gibbs asked. His hand lifted from her clasped ones and reached up to gingerly brush aside a lock of her hair. Even from her less than ideal vantage point, Abby could see Ziva relax slightly, her eyes closing in content. But then her expression darkened once more as she answered Gibbs question.

"No. Not now, anyway," she amended. "I do not think I could take another reaction like Abby's. I do not think I could…"

"Okay." Gibbs voice was soft, and accepting. "We'll wait."

And with that he stood, and Abby sensed the conversation was over. Not completely resolved, but definitely closed for the time being. And oddly enough, she was glad for it. She didn't want to watch anymore, but found her boots glued to the tiled floor, unable to move either forward or back. Gibbs offered his hand to Ziva, and she took it, rising to stand with him. But then his offered hand pulled her closer, and he wrapped her in a strong, one-armed hug.

The crook of his elbow hooked around the back of Ziva's neck, and had it been any other two people, it would have seemed awkward. But Abby knew from experience that one of those hugs from Gibbs was one of the most comforting things in the world. She knew that Ziva was now getting a lungful of pure _eau de_ Gibbs—scotch, coffee, and sawdust.

Ziva relaxed against him, but her arms remained by her side, rather than returning the embrace. For a moment, Abby was irritated by the other woman's reaction. Gibbs didn't give hugs lightly, and to not give him one in return—inconceivable. But then the Goth heard Ziva's muffled voice as she said something into Gibbs' shoulder.

"Hmm?" Apparently Gibbs had also had difficulty understanding her. Ziva's hands came up to rest on Gibbs' hips as she lifted her head just enough to give her words clarity.

"I am sorry."

"For Abby?" Gibbs' voice had lowered slightly, becoming husky as he spoke into Ziva's ear.

Ziva nodded against him. "I should have been more careful. I—"

"Hey." The word came out as a soft bark, cutting Ziva off. "This is no one's fault. Don't apologize for something that should have happened a long time ago."

"But if she is upset with you—"

"No apologies," Gibbs repeated, his tone giving no room for further argument. Abby waited for him to quote his infamous 'sign of weakness' spiel, but it never came. Instead of a stern reproach for Ziva's admission of guilt, there was nothing but comfort and reassurance in his voice. And this time, Ziva didn't say anything in response.

Abby watched them stand there, silence echoing throughout the hallway. The moment she was witnessing had suddenly turned tender, and the Goth was suddenly struck with the revelation that her observation had turned from curious to voyeuristic. And the soft light of the still-rising sun peeking through the window only served to bathe them in an ethereal glow. Abby's heart sank as the anger from the day before melted away, and the guilt that was lingering just below the surface washed over her.

Her words from Saturday rang in her ears, and she nearly winced with how harsh they sounded, even to her own ears. She could only imagine how they must have sounded to Ziva. She had said every single spiteful thing she could think of to throw in Ziva's face—as was often her first instinct when faced with something that shook her so completely. She'd done the best she could to make Ziva feel as horrible as she did at that moment, each word subconsciously designed to cut as deeply as it possibly could. And just like every other task she undertook, she had been all too successful.

And that realization made her ache on the inside.

Finally, Gibbs pulled away from Ziva, though his hand remained in contact with her cheek.

"Let's go see if we can find something to nail the brother to the wall, huh?" he said, a grin tickling his lips. Ziva returned it with one of her own.

"That sounds a little aggressive, even for you," she remarked. "Even I only had a suspicion." She regarded him with a smirking gaze. "Do you know something I do not?"

"Only that I didn't like the way he was looking at you at the crime scene."

A low chuckle came from Ziva's throat. "Jealousy becomes you, Jethro."

"It does, does it?"

"Yes. You get this little gleam in your eye. It is very… fetching, yes?"

"Right word, wrong adjective," Gibbs replied, pressing the button that would call the elevator back down to pick them up. "I am not _fetching_."

Ziva reached up to pat his shaven cheek affectionately. "Good boy," she admonished playfully, as she would an obedient dog. Her efforts were rewarded with a swift, but gentle, tap to the back of the head. To Abby's surprise, Ziva laughed, the mirthful sound ringing down the corridor to the Goth's ears.

"Careful, David," Gibbs growled as the elevator doors slid open and both agents stepped inside. "I bite."

Ziva gave another smug chuckle. "Yes," a sultry voice agreed. "I remember…"

The doors closed on the couple, leaving Abby alone in the resulting silence. She stared after them for a few long moments, unable to move from her position. Finally, she returned to her lab, all thoughts of Caf-Pow and caffeine long gone. Her mind was a swirl of conflicting thoughts that bickered amongst themselves in a manner not unlike the repartee between Timmy and Tony.

Tony was the voice of her diminished anger, reminding her that she was not the one in the wrong, that her reaction the day before had been entirely justified. But then Timmy spoke up: was she mad that they were together, or was it the fact that they had lied about it?

_Did it matter?_ Tony snapped back. _No!_ They were together, and by being together they were lying. If it wasn't wrong, they wouldn't have hid it, not from the team.

_You said it yourself, Abby,_ Timmy said. _Vance would throw a fit if he found out. He'd split up the team. Couldn't you also say that Gibbs and Ziva were trying to protect the team by keeping their relationship a secret? _

Good point, Timmy. Abby felt the need to mediate now. She felt thought-Tony about to snipe back in protest, but she mentally shushed him. Gibbs would never knowingly hurt her. Wasn't that why she took her anger out on Ziva in the first place? And why she only gave Gibbs the silent treatment?

And Ziva obviously felt bad about keeping the secret. Plus, Abby's tongue-lashing had affected her to the point where Abby felt guilty, which she hadn't expected, not from Ziva. If Tony was soft on the outside and rock on the inside, then Ziva was just the opposite. Except, her outside wasn't just rock… it was durasteel—no, adamantium, that was stronger than durasteel. She was adamantium on the outside, and as Abby realized now, slightly plushy on the inside. But Ziva hid the plushy part too well, especially after Somalia.

Abby had once called Ziva an emotionless, perfect warrior. And she had realized only moments later that she had been wrong. Well, Ziva _was_ a perfect warrior, or at least, as perfect as Abby had ever seen someone get… but she wasn't emotionless. Not at all.

Why hadn't she remembered that at Gibbs' house? She'd just been so angry about finding out the truth, and about having to find out on her own rather than being told… She hadn't really stopped to think, had she? She'd only reacted. Ziva had once told Abby that the key to surviving any given situation is to act, not react.

Well, Abby had not acted. She had failed Ziva in more than one way, hadn't she? Didn't listen to her the first time, didn't even let her say _anything_ the day before, and had made her out to be a villain she wasn't. What kind of friend was she?

She was so deep in thought that she didn't hear Gibbs enter her lab on silent feet. It wasn't until she turned around and saw him standing there watching her that she noticed his presence—nearly giving her a heart attack in the process. But then she froze, and stared back at him with equal intensity. Her arms folded over her chest defensively, and her chin dipped ever so slightly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Abby didn't want to be the one make the first move. She knew the jig was up. Gibbs knew why she was upset—there was no more hiding for her. But Gibbs was never the one to start a conversation like this. No, he would just stand there looking at her, waiting for her to crack. It always worked on her.

But not this time. Abby was determined to wait him out. It was his turn to do some explaining. Because even though she didn't hate him for the secret she had discovered, it didn't mean he was off the hook. She was not going to cave, not on this. Nuh uh. Absolutely not. No way, no how—

"Staring at me isn't going to make me any less upset, Gibbs." _Crap._ So much for waiting him out.

Abby saw a triumphant gleam in his eye, but there was no sign of the accompanying grin that usually followed.

"You know." Gibbs' statement was a simple declaration, his voice serious.

"Yeah, Gibbs, I do," Abby responded, unable to keep the hybrid of hurt and anger from lacing her voice. "I know."

"Abs…"

"Don't you Abs me, Gibbs. I—you—" Abby faltered then, unsure of what she could say that could adequately convey the turmoil within her. "You should have _told_ me."

"I know—"

Abby cut him off. "Tell me."

"What?" Gibbs' brow furrowed.

"Tell me now. Right here, right now. Tell me like you should have in the first place."

Gibbs straightened slightly, and stepped closer to the scientist. He looked her in the eye, with only fierce honesty in his gaze. Abby looked up at him plaintively, her own gaze slightly wary. But the intensity of his gaze could not be ignored, nor could the seriousness of his voice as he responded to her command.

"I love Ziva."

Abby blinked, as surprise flooded her.

There had been no hesitation, no pause to his declaration. And it had not been the revelation she had anticipated. She'd expected a concession that they were dating, or that they were "involved", but not something this… profound. Gibbs didn't say things like this. He never said it about Hollis, or even that redhead who kept popping up every so often when Kate was still around.

"You…?" Abby tried to speak, but ultimately failed. Luckily, Gibbs had no problem clarifying the matter.

"Love her," he finished for her. Again, no hesitation. Abby was suddenly struck with the realization that this could not be the first time he'd uttered those words. Flashing back to the scene she had witnessed in the hallway that morning, she knew in an instant that he'd most likely said it to Ziva. After a moment of thought, Abby decided that was a good thing. If she'd been the first person Gibbs revealed his feelings to, it would be one secret too many for her to bear.

"Oh. Okay, then." Abby chewed on her lip, her eyes lowering as she wracked her mind for the next issue to bring up. But his words echoed in her head as she considered her earlier anger and the accusations she had intended to throw at him. How could she argue against something like that? _Love? _

"Why didn't you tell me?" She settled on searching for more details in the end.

"We decided not to," he told her bluntly. It stung, but Abby accepted it. There was obviously issues they had discussed, issues she wasn't privy to. She'd accept it—for now. A new thought popped into her mind then.

"Is she why you've been so exhausted lately?"

"Abs…"

"No Gibbs! This is important! If she's working you so hard that you can't function properly, that can be really dangerous in the field!"

"Abby." Gibbs voice was now hard, stern with a subtle chastisement. Abby immediately fell silent. "My exhaustion has nothing to do with what you're thinking. And no," he said as Abby opened her mouth to respond, "I'm not telling you any more details about that. Not my place."

Abby paused for a moment, considering his ultimatum. She then moved on to another concern that was foremost on her mind.

"Gibbs, I know that you must really feel strongly about her if you're telling me you _love_ her—by which I'm assuming that you're _in_ love with her, because you love me, but not in _that_ way, you know?" Gibbs gave her a stern look, prompting her to get back on topic. "Right, well, does she feel the same way? She's been through hell, Gibbs, and she's vulnerable. Everyone can see it. And you make people feel safe, without even meaning to. It's one of the things I like best about you—"

"Abs…"

"Right. Well… What happens when she gets back to how she used to be? Back to being strong-as-oak warrior Ziva? She won't need to be comforted anymore. Is she still going to stick around?" Gibbs regarded her coolly, and Abby quickly moved to soften her concerns. "I don't want to see you hurt, Gibbs. After Shannon, and Jenny, and all those divorces… This is all recent, and if you feel more deeply for her than she does for you—"

"Abby." Gibbs' voice halted Abby mid-ramble. "This isn't some post-traumatic rebound," he said. "Not for either one of us."

Abby froze. _Uh oh. _It was in that moment she knew that she was missing one key piece of evidence. She'd been operating under the assumption that this was actual news. Like new news, not old news. That this secret affair had been established in recent months. But what did Gibbs always say?

_Never assume anything. Always double-check._

Oh, no. That was one of Abby's rules. She very nearly gave herself a headsmack at her idiocy. Now she knew why Ziva always tried to keep a cool head. Having a hot head made you forget your own rules.

"Gibbs," Abby started, with a note of trepidation in her voice. "How long have you and Ziva…" She couldn't bring herself to say it. When Gibbs didn't immediately answer, Abby tried to prod him into revealing the information by guessing herself. "What, since Lee died? Since we went to Stillwater? Since Vance split up the team?" When Gibbs still didn't answer, instead giving only a smirk, her brow arched in surprise.

"Since _before_ Vance?" Still that infuriating smirk. "Was it when Ziva went under cover with Hoffman? In all the movies, instances of extreme stress like that always trigger the manifestation of unresolved sexual tension…"

"No, Abs." Gibbs cocked his head when Abby gave a frustrated sigh. "Remember the stakeout at the storage unit?"

Abby's brow furrowed. "Stakeout? Which…" Her eyes widened with comprehension. "The one with the prank war with Ziva and Tony?" Gibbs nodded. "Oh my god, Gibbs! That was _forever_ ago! You've been together all this time? That changes everything! No wonder you were so depressed when Vance split up the team! I mean, I thought you were just pissed that Vance pulled the Director card and tried to punish you for Jenny, but now… You were sad that Ziva was sent back to Israel!"

Abby surged towards him, and wrapped her arms around him in a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet. In an instant her anger and betrayal disappeared as sympathy for her silver-haired fox dominated all conscious thought. Suddenly she pulled away, and began to pace agitatedly in front of her lab table.

"Oh my God, and after Rivkin—wait. If you and she were involved, then who was Michael? I mean, we all assumed that he was her boyfriend, because that's what Tony said, but Ziva is too loyal to cheat on someone like that, and we never actually asked her… oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no." She spun to face Gibbs. "I helped him, Gibbs. I helped Tony investigate Ziva and Rivkin… it was because of me that Tony found out Rivkin was Mossad, and not a banker like his file said. And he asked me to keep it secret, until he took care of it himself. If I'd told you—which I totally would have if I had known you two were, you know—then he wouldn't have gone over to Ziva's that night, and Rivkin wouldn't be dead. And if Rivkin didn't die, then Ziva never would have been mad at Tony and she wouldn't have stayed in Israel and she wouldn't have died—or almost died, because it turned out she wasn't dead she was only …"

Abby finally ran out of breath, and gulped down some air. "I'm so sorry, Gibbs. And don't say I shouldn't apologize, because should. I need to, because if it weren't for me then none of that would have happened, and Ziva wouldn't be hurting." Her eyes widened, and her hands came up to cover her mouth for a moment. "Ziva! Oh, Gibbs, I was horrible to her, and she didn't deserve it, not at all…"

"Abby, calm down," Gibbs said, stepping forward to rest his arms on the Goth's upper arms, stilling her listlessness. "What's done is done."

"But—"

"She isn't mad at you, Abs. You must have realized that, after what you saw this morning."

"You knew I was watching?" Abby asked, incredulous. Gibbs merely arched an eyebrow at her. "Right, stupid question. You know everything. It's me who's out of the loop—" She winced, glancing at Gibbs apologetically. "Sorry. I get why you didn't say anything about all this, I do."

Gibbs opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off when the sound of the stairwell door slamming open echoed down the hall and the pounding of booted feet running towards the lab followed. Both agent and scientist turned towards the door to see Ziva sprint into view, her eyes alight with excitement. But she slid to a stop just inside the lab door, keeping a respectful distance away as the mask Abby saw the day before following her verbal attack slid into place over her features.

"We found a lead on the brother, Gibbs," she said, her dark eyes darting between Gibbs and Abby twice before finally settling on Gibbs. "Bank records show an unexplained expenditure of over a million dollars made three weeks prior to the victim's death."

"You track the money?" Gibbs asked, his tone all business.

"McGee is working on it now. Tony and I were going to go pick up the brother and bring him back for interrogation."

"Do it."

Ziva nodded, and turned to leave without giving Abby a second glance. But Abby couldn't let her leave like that.

"Ziva, wait!"

The agent froze, then slowly turned back to face Abby. Her eyes were hooded, guarded, even more so than they had been when Abby had tried to give her a lecture about trusting Tony. It sent shivers through Abby's core, and she slowly took a step towards her friend.

"I—umm…" her voice trailed off nervously. She looked towards Gibbs, who nodded once in reassurance. Bucking up her courage—and her pride—she moved briskly towards Ziva, intent on wrapping her in a fierce Abby hug. "I am so—"

She was just reaching out her arms to embrace the smaller woman when Ziva swiftly slid out of her reach. It happened in the blink of an eye, which told Abby it was more reflex than a conscious action. Abby halted, quickly withdrawing her outstretched arms to clasp her hands guiltily in front of her. Looking intently at Ziva, whose eyes stubbornly refused to meet hers, Abby saw something that she had seen once before, again when she had lectured her about Tony after her rescue.

The barest hint of shame had crept over her features, and Abby winced at the knowledge that she had caused it.

"Ziva…" Abby began again, her voice careful. "All of the stuff I said, about—"

"I was there yesterday, Abby," Ziva cut in, her voice dull. "I do not need to hear it again." Her gaze remained stubbornly averted, and her body was tense. The lab fell deathly silent, as she said nothing else and Abby was at a loss for how to respond.

Gibbs remained quiet as well, allowing the two women to do what they needed to do. Ziva's reaction worried him some, but he held his peace nonetheless, even though he was curious as to what had actually transpired between them yesterday.

"DiNozzo is waiting for me," Ziva said, effectively ending the terse quiet. She looked towards Gibbs, who nodded.

"Go," he said, ignoring Abby's gaze, which was silently pleading him to help her out. Ziva nodded, then turned on her heel to leave. She was almost out the door before Gibbs' voice made her halt once more.

"Hey!" His newest agent froze, then slowly turned back around. Gibbs grinned, then tossed her a set of keys, which she easily caught with an expression of surprise crossing her features. She glanced at him inquisitively. "You drive," he clarified.

Ziva's lips curved into a smirk for a moment, and she gave a parting wink to Gibbs before she vanished from sight. Abby stared helplessly after her, and then turned to glare at Gibbs.

"What." His voice told her he was completely unconcerned with what had just transpired, and the word came out as a statement rather than a question.

"You could've helped!" she exclaimed. Gibbs smirked.

"Not my problem to fix," he told her easily.

Abby glared at him. "But you sent her away before I could apologize!" She began to pace again. "I _have_ to apologize, Gibbs. I was horrible. And did you see how she reacted? She hates me!"

"Hey," Gibbs barked softly, making her pause. "She doesn't hate you, Abs."

"She does! She should! I call her my friend, and I treat her like crap whenever things get bad. She's done nothing but help me when I needed it, and I turn on her when she needs me the most!"

Gibbs regarded her for a long moment, and then took a sip of his coffee. "If you'd tried to push it just now, she wouldn't have listened. But it's not because she's mad at you. It's cause she's scared of what you think of her."

"Oh." Abby's voice was small as she considered what she was being told. It made sense, in a way, but still…

"You wanna tell me why she thought you were going to hit her just now?"

Gibbs' voice made Abby freeze. His tone was casual, almost nonchalant, but she could hear the accusation buried just below the surface. Or at least, she thought it was there, except that Gibbs wasn't really one for _subtle_ accusation. So maybe that was just her own guilt making its presence known. Her mouth twisted in an apologetic grimace as she looked at Gibbs, her hands wringing each other tightly.

"Yesterday, when I saw her at your house… I might have over reacted." She paused, and Gibbs' eyes narrowed dangerously. She was quick to continue. "I kind of… slapped her?"

Gibbs brow arched. "Did you? Or are you asking me?"

"I did. But I didn't mean to. I mean, I guess some part of me meant to, but I didn't really know what I was doing until I started yelling at her. And I know it was really, really wrong of me to do that, which is why I _have_ to tell her how sorry I am." Abby paused, and found Gibbs staring at her in a way that seemed… odd. "What?"

"You slapped her?" He asked, his tone somewhat incredulous. Abby nodded weakly. "And you're still in one piece?" Another nod.

All of a sudden, Gibbs' features broke into a beaming, unabashed smile. Abby's eyes widened at the sight, so startling it was in its brilliance. It was toothy, and completely unreserved in its exuberance. He gave a soft chuckle.

"That's my girl," he murmured before taking a swig of his coffee. Confusion flooded the Goth.

"You're happy I—"

"Hell no," Gibbs interrupted, his voice suddenly hard. His eyes flashed, and suddenly she realized that she was getting a glimpse of the Gibbs that the suspects saw in interrogation. But in the next instant, the evil-Gibbs had disappeared again. "You're lucky she didn't floor you."

"Yeah, I know, which afterwards I thought was really weird. I mean, Ziva's this super special spy with crazy martial arts… She should've at least blocked it, or dodged it or something." Abby paused. "Why, you think she purposely didn't do anything? I know I probably didn't sneak up on her—because it's impossible to sneak up on Ziva—but she wouldn't just stand there, would she?"

Gibbs remained silent, smugly taking a sip of his coffee. He had that twinkle in his eyes that told her he knew something she didn't. And it was also the look that told her he was not going to be telling her what it was that he knew. And so she didn't bother to ask him about it. Instead, she decided to voice another question.

"What should I do?"

"Try again. And again. Make her listen." His answers were all blunt and to the point. Her spirits fell as she realized that she would have to figure out the finer points on her own. Normally, that wouldn't be at all problematic, but when Ziva was concerned… Ziva was uncharted territory. Abby had no idea how to successfully navigate around the walls and layers of protection Ziva shrouded herself in.

Gibbs must have seen her disappoint, because he stepped towards her to wrap her in a comforting embrace. She clung to him tightly, taking all the reassurance she could from the warmth of the contact. The fact that he didn't hate her was relief enough, though she knew that it wasn't really his forgiveness she needed.

"Don't give up, Abs," Gibbs murmured in her ear. "She loves you."


	42. Reconciliation

Abby spent the rest of the day trying to think of what she could say by way of apology in her mind, but the nervous perfectionist in her nixed almost everything she came up with. Finally, she decided that she simply needed to talk Ziva, alone. And with that decided, it quickly became apparent that Gibbs would not help by sending Ziva down to the lab to check on pending results. Which meant that Abby had to go on the offensive, and actively seek out her friend. And this time she would be sure to limit the premature conciliatory hugs.

Abby found her opportunity a few hours later when she went to make an appearance in the squad room to personally deliver the results of her latest test. She muttered to herself nervously as she waited for the elevator to come, and fully expected to continue as soon as the metal car did come. But when the elevator doors slid open, she was confronted with the slender form of none other than one Special Agent Ziva David.

The shorter woman's eyes darkened ever so slightly as she made brief eye contact with the Goth, though she quickly averted her gaze. Abby stepped into the confines of the elevator, filling the open space next to the control panel. The doors slid shut behind her with a ding, effectively trapping both women inside. For a moment, only the whir of the lift gears penetrating the silence between them, but then even that fell silent once Abby flipped the emergency stop switch.

The Goth ignored the immediate tension that stiffened her friend's limbs, instead focusing on getting out what she needed to say. She pushed the fluttering in her gut away and swallowed her pride; she needed to apologize, no matter how nervous she might feel.

"Ziva, listen, I know that we never really got off to a great start when you first got here—"

"Abby, please, not now." The scientist missed the slight widening of Ziva's brown eyes, and the smaller woman's struggle to maintain her steady breathing, since her own green eyes were glued to the floor of the elevator. The agent's voice was calm, forcedly so, but Abby thought nothing of it.

"No, Ziva. Yes now. I have to get this out, because this is stuff I actually mean. I didn't really mean all that stuff I said yesterday—"

"I appreciate the thought Abby, but if you had not meant it, you would not have said it, now please—" Now there was a hint of agitation in her voice, but Abby misinterpreted it as discomfort at the personal nature of the conversation. She never really did like talking about feelings, did she?

"Ziva, I'm trying to make things right. I know I screwed up, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that!"

Once more, Ziva was too quick to interrupt. "I forgive you, Abby, really. Now start the—" She moved to flip the switch herself, but Abby stepped in front of it, forcing Ziva to withdraw once again.

"Don't say that if you don't mean it!" Abby demanded. "You're my friend, and you deserve more than how I treated you yesterday."

"Abby—"

"I mean, we've really had more good times than bad, like when you gave me that taser when my ex-boyfriend was after me, and that time you stayed at my apartment when your place was being fumigated, and then you got me that really yummy cupcake as a thank-you, even though McGee ate it… Oh, I wasn't supposed to ramble, but you know what I'm like, I can never stay on topic—"

"ABBY!" Ziva's shout was accompanied by the thundering echo of her hand slamming against the closed metal doors. Abby froze, stunned into silence at her friend's sharp cry. She stared, almost fearfully, at the stiff outline of the smaller woman's frame. "_Start the elevator_."

Her accented voice was thick, her brown eyes downcast as she delivered the clipped command. Abby hesitated for a moment, too shocked to move, but then she obeyed, sending the suddenly too-small car back into motion. She watched as Ziva took several long, ragged breaths, not moving from her position by the doors.

Then a moment later, the doors opened to reveal the familiar squad bay. Ziva was moving as soon as the doors began to slide open, even turning sideways in order to slip through the growing gap. Abby watched her go with wide eyes, unable to do anything more. One look at Gibbs' concerned expression as he looked towards the elevator told the scientist that Ziva's strike against the metal had echoed up to the squad room. Blue eyes flicked from Ziva's swiftly moving form to Abby's shocked features, and then a twitch to his lips betrayed his comprehension of what had transpired between them. A jerk of his chin silently told Abby to return to her lab, where presumably he would meet her in a few minutes.

She obeyed without complaint, and the doors closed on her to bring her back to her lab. She moved robotically, until the comforting strains of her music reached her ears and the familiar scents of chemicals greeted her. Once within the walls of her lab she stilled for a moment, but then began to pace as her agitation grew.

As soon as Gibbs appeared ten minutes later, her anxiety shifted onto him.

"Gibbs! You told I should talk to her, I should make her listen! I did! Well, it backfired. Big time! Did you see? Well, of course you couldn't see, even you don't have x-ray vision, but still. She couldn't wait to get away from me! You said she didn't hate me, but she does. Oh my god… I've never seen Ziva like that, not ever. She was… was…"

"Scared." Gibbs' voice was calm, but low. Abby looked up to meet his gaze, and found his expression deadly serious. "She was scared, Abby."

Abby blinked. "But—"

Gibbs raised a finger to silence her, which she obeyed without hesitation. He took two long strides to the open door of the lab, and firmly pulled it closed. The click of the lock echoed through the lab, and then he was back in front of Abby, stepping closer to her than he had been previously.

"What I tell you in the next thirty seconds does not leave this lab," he said. There was no question, no clarification. It was going to happen, and Abby could do nothing more than nod in affirmation. "She's claustrophobic, Abs."

"Oh…" Abby's brow furrowed in confusion. "Wait, but... Ziva's not afraid of anything," she pointed out. "And that time she got lost in that shipping container with Tony, she didn't really seem bothered. I mean, not any more so than anyone else who'd been forced to spend all day in a freezing cold metal box—"

"That was before she spent three months in a cell being tortured for information."

A beat passed, and then pale hands flew up to cover blackened lips. "Oh—Oh no! I stopped the elevator. She really wasn't mad at _me… _She really did just want the elevator to move again. I should have realized, but you use it all the time, I didn't think—" She gasped. "Gibbs… Did she think I was _interrogating_ her? I didn't mean to, I just wanted to talk to her privately, and then I thought the elevator would be good, because then she wouldn't be to avoid me like she's done in the past…"

"Abs." Gibbs' voice cut through her rambling. "Deep breath."

She obeyed, inhaling intently and then letting it out slowly. When she finished, her shoulders slumped and looked up at Gibbs with sad eyes.

"Looks like I have one more thing to apologize for, huh?"

Gibbs grinned, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, which she gladly received. Then, he pulled back to look her in the eye.

"Fix this," he ordered, his voice firm.

Abby nodded in affirmation, even though she didn't need the reminder. She would be thinking of nothing else until she made things right. Then she received a second kiss, and watched as Gibbs smirked. He reached out and deposited a small Post-It on Abby's lab table. He tapped it twice, then took a small sip of his coffee.

"This time," he said after he swallowed, "try it on _her _turf."

And then he was gone, with only the lonely ding of the elevator to keep her company as she glanced warily at the mysterious little yellow paper on her table. There, scribbled in hasty black pen, was an unfamiliar address. Not that she really expected to recognize it in the first place, since if she knew it Gibbs wouldn't have needed to write it down for her. But that didn't matter. It didn't change the one thing that mattered.

It was going to be the one place she was determined to be before the day was out.

---

Eight hours later, Abby stood outside the apartment indicated on the Post-It. It was late afternoon, in an unimposing brick building that had no doorman and no buzzer. It made sense, since the surrounding neighborhood was fairly quiet, mostly residential with more than a few single family homes scattered about. While the exterior of the building was nothing to speak of, the interior was quasi-upscale. It was clean and well-kept, with marble floors in the lobby and opulent lighting that gave it a relatively cozy feel.

It had been a breeze to locate the second-floor apartment, as it was easily accessible by the nearby stairwell, for those who would not want to take the elevator. The door she stood in front of now was off-white in color, with golden numbers and a shiny doorknob with two deadbolts to protect what—or rather, whom— resided within. It was far too domestic for what the Goth would have expected as the final barrier that stood between her and the object of her day-long quest.

Abby could hear soft strains of some unidentifiable music drifting from behind the door, and the fragrant scent of some spicy, aromatic dish being cooked from within tickled her nose. Suddenly, a wave of apprehension flooded her. She was about to intrude on something she knew hardly anyone ever got to see. Was she ready for it? Or, perhaps more importantly, would she be ready if that something was not ready to be witnessed? Abby steeled herself mentally, and then finally moved.

Reaching out with a pale hand, Abby rapped sharply on the door. She could hear a rustle of movement inside, and then silence as she envisioned the resident looking through the peephole at her. Then, the clatter of various locks being unlatched followed— Abby bit back a grin as she recognized the sound of _more_ than two locks being worked. When the door opened a moment later, it was to reveal Ziva's familiar, but surprised, features.

"Abby?"

The Goth watched Ziva's dark eyes dart to survey the hallway behind and to either side of her, looking for any other visitors who might have tagged along. When no one presented themselves, confusion mingled with her surprise.

"What are you doing here?" Ziva asked. "How—?" When Abby only smiled lightly, the agent seemed to relax slightly. "Gibbs. I should have expected this." She sighed, and then seemed to remember herself. "Please, come in." She stepped aside, allowing the scientist entrance to her home.

Abby carefully moved into the apartment, coming to a stop just inside enough to give Ziva room to close and lock the door behind her. Abby watched her do so, and was slightly startled to see a Glock in the smaller woman's right hand. Turning, Ziva noticed her gaze, and let out a small murmur of apology.

"I was not expecting visitors," she said by way of explanation.

The two women stood there nervously for a moment, in the entryway of the apartment, both too wary to speak. Finally, it was Ziva who spoke up first.

"Abby, about this afternoon, in the elevator—"

"That was totally my fault," Abby interrupted quickly. "I shouldn't have cornered you like that."

Ziva's eyes softened. "I had no intention of harming you," she said. "I would _never_—"

"Oh, I know that!" Abby reassured her. "You would never hurt me, I know. I was never worried about that, especially not when you didn't kill me for slapping you yesterday."

Ziva gave her a wry smile. "Then why are you acting I might snap at any moment?" she asked, her voice slightly teasing. Abby's mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out, much to her chagrin. Luckily, Ziva didn't take her silence to heart. "Relax, Abby. I am not going to bite."

Abby blushed furiously, recalling the conversation she had overheard earlier that day. She wondered briefly if Ziva also knew that she had been spying on them, as Gibbs had, or whether the agent simply took her reddened cheek for nerves at her current situation. Whichever way it was, Ziva didn't specify… but she did extend her arm, inviting the Goth deeper into her apartment.

"Come. Make yourself at home."

Abby obeyed, taking the chance to fully examine the space around her as Ziva returned her firearm to the small drawered table that stood beside the door. Observant green eyes widened slightly as she investigated the simple layout of the space, amazed to see what the agent had done with it.

High vaulted ceilings were illuminated by the natural light that spilled in through the large windows, as well as by the warm glow of the lamps Ziva had turned on to replace the dwindling rays of the late afternoon sun. One wall was completely covered with an ornate tapestry—for lack of a better term for the carpet-like ornament—that featured a swirl of arabesque designs, in a palette of color that included dusty browns, bricks, and burgundies. There was a bronze hamsa hand on the living room wall on the way to the kitchen, and most of the furniture was of a dark mahogany, which offset the sandy walls and carpet-less floors.

Abby recognized the hardwood flooring to be made of Brazilian cherry—which would have been lost on the scientist if she had not recently been looking into getting new hardwood floors herself. It featured panels of differently colored wood, some lighter, some darker than others. The mix of colors kept the floor from being washed out by the sandy colored walls and creamy-cushioned sofa.

The couch and easy chair in the living were off-white in color, but were adorned with richly tinted throw pillows. The coffee table sported a metal frame and glass top, and sported a pot of some flowering plant Abby didn't recognize. Glancing around, she quickly discovered it was not the only plant in the place. They lined every window sill, both in the living room and along one of the windows in the kitchen, though the kitchen was also home to various herbed plants. At first glance, Abby recognized mint, basil, and lavender, all situated along the counter in front of a conveniently located window.

Taking a deep breath, Abby paused for a moment to close her eyes. The place smelled… _amazing_. There was so much going on, and yet each fragrance comingled so well that it was a wave of pure home comfort. The slight sizzling sound that reached her ears alerted her to a pan of some deliciously aromatic sauce or stew simmering on the stove that made the Goth's mouth water. The counter top was clean, save for the as yet unused cutting board laid out on the gray marble surface.

Returning her attention back to Ziva, who had come up beside her after returning her handgun to its home by the door, Abby noticed just how relaxed she was. The smaller woman had changed out of her work clothes, and was instead clad in a simple cotton tank top and a relaxed pair of yoga pants. Her feet were bare, made possible by the cozy warmth of the room, despite the growing chill of the outdoors.

It was then that Abby saw the book resting on the coffee table, next to the stemmed glass half-filled with red wine. She almost laughed when she recognized the thick binding of the book as that of the third novel in the _Twilight_ saga. But then the gravity of the situation hit her, and all mirth fled her in the wake of the shock that followed.

The scene before her wasn't shocking in itself, and that perhaps made it all the more shocking. Abby had half-expected to find dozens of guns strewn about the place, partially dismantled as Ziva spent her off hours meticulously cleaning them. Or perhaps she'd see Ziva in the midst of a workout, beating the stuffing out of some poor defenseless punching bag strung up in a corner. But _this_, this scene of pure domesticity, she did _not_ expect.

But then, she really shouldn't have been. Ziva had never been normal, never less than surprising, so Abby should have known to not expect anything specific of her. Or, at very least, she should have expected to have her expectations blown out of the water.

Ziva waved her to the couch, and Abby gingerly sat, keeping her black purse carefully on her lap. Her legs bounced nervously, but then she forced them to fall still. But instead of the relaxed look she was going for, her legs simply froze. Ziva noticed, and her lips curled into a smirk.

"Relax, Abby," she said. "Please."

Abby grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. Right, of course. Sorry…"

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Uhm, sure," Abby responded, thankful for the reprieve. "Do you have any more wine?"

Ziva's brow furrowed for a split second, and then amusement lit up her features. "Oh! Abby, this is not wine," she revealed, waving towards her wine glass. "It is unsweetened cranberry juice. It has a few things I mixed in it as well."

"Really?" Abby couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. "Like what?"

"Honey and cinnamon, mostly."

"I've never heard of doing that before," Abby remarked curiously. "Is it any good?"

"Would you like to try some?"

"Absolutely!" This time, excitement laced her tone, and Ziva smiled as she moved towards the kitchen.

Abby watched her go, and her eyes widened when she saw the agent pull out a carafe of the stuff. It was darker than most of the cranberry juice she'd seen in the stores, but what truly surprised her was the large piece of honeycomb at the bottom of the jar, accompanied by several whole sticks of cinnamon.

"Honeycomb? Where did you manage to find that in DC?" she asked.

Ziva pulled out another wine glass. "There is a fresh market that comes to town every couple of months."

"You mean like a farmer's market?"

Ziva paused. "I do not think any farmers shop there. If it _is_ a farmer's market, they should have chosen a location closer to farm country to sell their products." Abby smiled, but didn't say anything. "I go there to get the herbs I cannot grow myself. I find that even though it is not as good as harvesting them myself, their hand-packaged herbs always have more flavor than what I can find in a store."

"That makes sense," Abby agreed. Ziva put the carafe away and brought the glass over to the Goth, who received it with a soft murmur of thanks. She took a sip, and nearly choked in surprise at the startling explosion of flavor that followed. "Oh my god, Ziva! This is amazing!"

"I am glad you like it," came the reply. A slender hand grasped her own glass as she sat, curling up on the easy chair adjacent to the couch. A moment of silence followed, until Ziva's expression turned serious. "Why are you here, Abby?"

Abby froze, her fingers tightening on her glass. The easiness that had grown in the last few minutes disappeared, leaving her nervous and apprehensive. But Ziva was patient, and simply sat there until Abby could gather her thoughts. Ziva's gaze told her that she knew why she was there, or at least, what it was centered around— Gibbs.

"I wanted to apologize, for what happened yesterday."

"I thought that was what _I_ needed to do."

Abby glanced up at Ziva's half-joking, half-bitter voice. A wry smile quirked at her lips, and Abby felt another wash of guilt surge in her gut.

"Actually, you don't," she contradicted, her gaze dropping to her glass once again. But then, determination flared within her, and she looked up to make eye contact with her friend. "You don't need to apologize, because I get it. I understand why you and Gibbs kept this a secret."

"Abby—"

"No, Ziva, please let me finish. I'm not going to lie, and tell you that I am okay with what happened. I mean, not that you're with Gibbs, because that's actually pretty amazing, especially once he told me how long you guys have been together—but that's not what I'm trying to tell you right now…" Abby sighed. "Look, when I saw at Gibbs' house yesterday, all I could think about was the fact that you lied. I didn't stop to think why you might've lied in the first place. I thought you were betraying the team, but then later, when I'd had a chance to think, I realized you were trying to protect us.

"And all the other things I said… I was terrible. I was so shocked, and angry. You didn't deserve any of that, and none of it was true. Absolutely none of it. You are the best person I know, Ziva. You're nice, and loyal, and kind… But you're also so strong, so tough, and it makes me forget that you hurt too. Sometimes you hurt more than the rest of us, because you don't ever let anyone see."

This time, it was Ziva who dropped her gaze. Where Abby always bounced when she was nervous, Ziva grew even more still, coiled to spring at any moment. But she didn't say anything, and Abby continued.

"I know that you hurt, I do. I hate that I hurt you more, especially when I hit you. That was completely uncalled for, especially after…" Abby stopped herself before she said the dreaded word—Somalia. "I just… I was a really bad friend yesterday, Ziva. And I'm sorry."

Ziva didn't say anything for a long moment, and Abby waited with bated breath. She half-expected Ziva to throw her out, but she remembered her musings from ten minutes before—no expectations.

Finally, Ziva met her gaze once more.

"I will only accept your apology if you accept mine, Abby."

Relief washed over the Goth, and her expression showed it as her face broke into the biggest, widest smile she'd had in months.

"Deal!"

At that, Abby could finally relax, and she leaned back into the couch, realizing for the first time just how comfortable it was. Her bag left her lap to rest on the cushion beside her and she took another swallow of her spicy, bittersweet beverage, this time taking a moment to fully appreciate the taste.

Ziva cleared her throat. "You must have questions for me," she started conversationally.

"Do I ever!" Abby exclaimed excitedly. "But don't worry, I'm not going to ask you any of that really embarrassing stuff, like how Gibbs is as a boyfriend or anything. Well, that's partially because I've already thought about it, and I decided that with Gibbs, what you see is what you get, so I imagine that he is pretty much how he is at the Navy Yard, you know, all strong and intense, only he might trust you a little bit more than he trusts Tony or Tim."

"Speaking of which—"

"No, Ziva, don't ask me to not tell them," Abby interrupted. She watched as Ziva's face fell, and quickly continued. "You don't have to." Ziva's brows rose in surprise. "I mean, I thought I was now in this really bad position, knowing something this big when they don't, but it's not really that big a deal, you know? You guys are _really_ good at acting normal—well, not _normal_, but, you know, at least like not a couple—so it's not like either of them are likely to ask me if I know anything hinky. And considering the fact that the only reason even _I_ found out about it was by a freak accident, and I shouldn't even know in the first place, well…" Abby paused when she heard Ziva sigh as she continued to ramble.

"Well, what I'm trying to say is that, if they do find out, it won't be from me. You can wait to tell them until you're ready. And if they do ask, I'll just send them to you guys."

"Thank you, Abby."

"No need to thank me!" she responded lightly. "That's what friends are for, right?" Ziva only smiled in response. "Can I ask you a question now?"

"You can ask."

"Fair enough. Okay… um…." Abby's eyes traveled around the room, looking for a safe topic. And then she got an idea. "Why are you living here if you guys have been together so long? I mean, Gibbs has that great big house… Is this some kind of love nest?"

Ziva's gaze clouded in confusion. "Love… nest? Wait—is that what you call the extra residences of some our suspects when they need to meet up with their mistresses for secret sex?" Abby nodded, eliciting a laugh from the agent. "No! No, of course not. This is my apartment. There is no sex here."

Suddenly, her cheeks darkened with an embarrassed flush as she realized what she had said. "What I mean is… Gibbs does not come here. It is something my th—" she cut herself off abruptly. Abby watched her eyes widen ever so slightly, but then they hardened in determination, as if steeling herself for something, before she finished her thought. "Something my therapist suggested."

Abby looked at her in surprise. "Therapist?" _Geez, Abby_, she mentally chastised. _Remember, no expectations._ "You're seeing a therapist?"

"Yes," Ziva replied, a hint of bitterness entering her voice as she gazed into her cranberry juice. "It is foolish of me—"

"No." Abby's voice was firm, but warm. "No, Ziva, it isn't. And it isn't weak, either. It takes real courage to reach out for help, to open up to a stranger. It was hard even for me." Abby could see the question in Ziva's eyes, and she continued without having to be asked. "I saw someone, after Kate died."

The sentence weighed heavily in the air. There was the familiar flash of guilt over Ziva's features, as she felt the burden of how she should have been able to prevent the death of an innocent federal agent. And then there was pain, as she remembered her own loss from that time, a pain that was so similar to Abby's that it made her ache inside. But unlike how it felt four years ago, the scientist's pain was now bearable.

"Did it help?" Ziva's voice was small, apprehensive, as if afraid to hear the answer.

Abby nodded. "Yeah, it did. I went for almost a year. I mean, it didn't take _that_ long to feel functional again… That only took a few months, but I kept going because I liked having someone to talk to. And sometimes there'd be those cases that made me sad, and then I'd remember how Kate used to make those kinds of cases not so bad, you know? And that'd make me feel even worse. That was when the therapist really helped. He gave me tips on how I could make myself feel better, without having to rely on other people so much. I even almost starting going again when Gibbs left for Mexico, but I ended up managing okay on my own."

Abby took a sip of her juice, before she got back on the original topic. "Wait, if this is a suggestion of your therapist, then did you guys live together before? I mean, before the whole, you know… all the stuff last spring, and over the summer?" She was hesitant to mention Somalia, Israel, or Michael Rivkin, uncertain of how Ziva would react. She was not here to make her panic for the second time in one day. But Ziva saw through her vagueness, and smiled.

"You can say it, Abby," she said, her tone serious. "Somalia, Michael, my father… It happened. You do not need to avoid talking about it." She gave a wry scoff. "I think perhaps it _should_ be talked about. Or at least, it should not be ignored. Ignoring it is worse. Pretending like nothing happened—" She shook her head. Her gaze darkened, and Abby knew that no matter what she claimed, Ziva was not quite ready to talk about what had happened in Somalia.

"Is it Rivkin that bothers you? Or is it more about Somalia?"

There was a moment of silence, and Abby thought Ziva wouldn't answer, but then, to her surprise, Ziva sighed. "All of it. It—it was too much."

"Because Tony killed Rivkin?"

Ziva's brow furrowed. "What?"

"That Tony killed Rivkin… is that what's too much? I know it led to everything that happened later… The fact that it all started with Tony, is that what makes it so hard?"

"No," Ziva said without hesitation. Abby could not hide her surprise.

"Really?" she asked. "Because it—well, I guess it just seemed like it would. I mean—I guess my understanding is skewed, since I've only really heard Tony's side of things…" She blinked. "You know he feels really guilty about what happened, right? Because he does. And after we found out about the Damocles—"

"I know, Abby. I do. And things between us are returning to normal, slowly. And no, what Tony did was not— It was not—" Ziva paused, attempting to find the proper words. Abby took the opportunity to ask the question that had been on her mind since that morning.

"Ziva… who was Michael?"

Dark eyes flashed. "A Mossad operative in the country under false pretenses." Ziva's voice was matter-of-fact, but bitter.

"That's what the case file says, Ziva. That's not what I asked. And if you don't want to answer that's fine, but… I meant, who was he to you? We all assumed he was your boyfriend, because of how Tony reacted to him, but we never asked _you_. And if you and Gibbs... well…" She let the question hang, and was rewarded with a shaky smile.

"You are right. No one did ask me." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "And no. He was not my boyfriend. At least… not then."

Abby nodded. "But he used to be." A lift of Ziva's eyebrows was all the affirmation the scientist needed. "I bet he was hung up on you, huh?" she remarked lightly. "Someone like you, I can totally see you as a heartbreaker."

Ziva's gaze fell. Suddenly, Abby knew she had gone too far. "Sorry," she muttered quickly.

"No, do not apologize," Ziva recovered quickly. "You are right. He was interested in renewing things… but not honestly, not for himself. For the Director."

"Vance?"

"David."

"_Oh._" Realization dawned then. "Right. That would totally bum me out too."

Ziva's brow furrowed at the comment, and she looked at Abby in confusion. Then her head cocked slightly to the side, instantly becoming the picture of quizzicality as she attempted to puzzle through the translation in her head. Abby tried to bite back the grin trying to inch its way onto her lips at the sight, but her composure fell to pieces when Ziva herself began to laugh.

Whether the agent had incorrectly translated the colloquial 'bum' or was simply tickled by Abby's own efforts to maintain her bearing, the resulting carefree sound sent Abby into her own bout of giggles. It was as if a dam had been breached, as they seemed to feed off each other. Every time one of them began to calm the other would be going strong, sending the first into another round of laughter. The cycle was only interrupted by the ding of a timer emanating from the kitchen.

"Oh," Ziva said, wiping her eyes, as she set aside her wine glass. "The stew, I had forgotten. Excuse me."

"No, don't worry about it," Abby assured her. "I should be going anyway."

"Do you have someplace you need to be?"

Ziva's question took her by surprise, and she froze, purse in hand. "Um… No, I was just—I didn't—"

"Well, I was thinking," Ziva responded, "if you did not have any place else to be tonight, you could stay for dinner."

Abby smiled. "Are you offering?"

"No," came the deadpanned response. Abby's face fell. "Abby, I was teasing, of course I am."

The grin was back. "Well, then, if you're sure," she drawled playfully, depositing her bag back on the couch as she moved to watch Ziva begin her machinations in the kitchen. She eagerly took her juice with her.

"I am sure." Ziva began to chop an unidentifiable herb. "I always make extra. And besides, I never did take you up on your offer to celebrate my first case back." She shook the Goth a sly smile.

"That's right!" Abby exclaimed with a grin. "Though, honestly, you didn't need to use your trump card. I remember your cooking—I was hooked from first sniff."

Abby sat at the marble-topped island that stood in the middle of the kitchen, and simply watched Ziva work her magic. There was plenty of chatter, and Ziva kept up with both easily, but Abby also took the opportunity to just observe.

Ziva was calm, and relaxed, her motions smooth and natural. The tension that always seemed to pervade her body while with the rest of the team had vanished, leaving the agent… almost carefree. It was a stark contrast. Even before Somalia, before Rivkin, there had never been this degree of ease to her movements. There was absolutely no defensiveness to her now, and Abby was struck with a sense of wonder.

_Was this the Ziva that Gibbs got to see after work every day?_

Well, not every day, it seemed. Ziva had mentioned that Gibbs never came to this apartment—which made sense, because there was no trace of him in the place at all. It was all Ziva, soft and feminine but also strong and bold in the choice of color and décor. But the agent hadn't really explained why he didn't. Something about sex—which Abby did _not_ want get into, not at all… but it did make her wonder. Were they on a break? How could being away from such a strong protector like Gibbs possibly be considered part of a healing process?

But she didn't ask about it. Instead they exchanged stories—Ziva told Abby of the antics of Tony and DiNozzo— and even the occasional suspect—while out in the field, and then Abby returned with stories of what Ziva missed while she was first in Israel, then Somalia. Abby had balked at first, not wanting to risk depressing her, but Ziva wrangled her into it, claiming that it would help her to know that not everyone had been as miserable as she had been.

So Abby had opted to regale her with tales of all the different Probies who had tried to take her spot on the team. Ziva seemed to particularly enjoy the story about one of the very first ones who had made it past both Tony's and Timmy's interviews, only to storm out in tears after only thirty seconds alone in a room with Gibbs. Obviously, not quite so unflappable as Tony had claimed.

Abby's favorite story of the evening was Ziva's humorous retelling of Prince Sayif Ibn Alwan's efforts to seduce her. The Goth had been shocked that she hadn't heard of the man's antics during the case—though she would be the first to admit she had been more interested in the surprise appearance of Tony's father. Who was the subject of yet another amusing tale, as Ziva confided the elder DiNozzo's charm as well, of which Ziva had received a heavier dose.

But even as they exchanged stories, Abby couldn't help but notice the flash of pink that occasionally peeked out past the strap of Ziva's top as the agent reached over the stove. It took several glimpses for the scientist to recognize it—a scar. From what little she could see of it, it was little more than a ragged stripe, but it was the first tangible proof she'd seen that her friend's experience had been real.

That day she and the team had staggered out of the elevator, Ziva had been bruised, dirty, shocked, and broken— but at the same time, there had been only a limp to her gait. There had been no blood, no visible bandages… Abby had been able to pity her friend, without having to actually accept that she had been the captive of terrorists for months. It had all seemed so fantastical, so far from what her reality should have been, that she had been able to dismiss it.

But the scar banished any fantasy Abby still clung to. It was permanent, and only hinted at what else lay beneath her friend's clothes. Not to mention the demons Ziva hid within herself. And yet, here she was, making dinner to share with Abby, chatting and laughing like things were positively normal—well, at least, as normal as they ever had been.

The meal turned out delicious, as always, and had a name that Abby was unable to pronounce. Ziva teased her how she was able to rattle off six syllable science terms at a rate of six hundred words a second, but was hopeless when it came to Hebrew. To which she'd retaliated with how she'd been learning the non-English version of the Chad-Gadya nursery rhyme, and a quick rendition swiftly prompted Ziva into another round of gut-busting laughter.

They were interrupted mid-meal by the ringing of the telephone. The goofy smile that crossed Ziva's lips was enough for Abby to deduce who was on the other end. She'd waited patiently as Ziva spoke in a hushed tone as she explained she could not speak long, because she had a house guest. And then Abby laughed silently as Ziva rolled her eyes at Gibbs' response.

"Yes, I invited Abby for dinner," the agent explained, as if speaking to a three year-old. "And no, you were not invited." She glanced pointedly at Abby in chagrin as Gibbs rumbled something on the other end. Then Ziva smirked. "She is allowed because _she is not likely to end in my bed!_"

The last part was whispered, but Abby caught enough of it to send an inopportune sip of juice shooting out her nose. Her frantic attempts to staunch the flow, all the while unable to stop laughing, prompted Ziva to chuckle as she quickly promised to call Gibbs back later. There was a session of relentless taunts for the rest of the meal, but Abby finally relented when they moved back out the living room.

Abby stayed for hours more, unable to be the one to say good night first. They spoke about everything and nothing, and the Chatty Cathy in Abby reveled in it. They steered clear of the serious topics as best they could, but neither minded. All concept of time vanished as they became absorbed in their interaction. It wasn't until Ziva tried to hide a yawn that Abby realized how late it was—almost midnight. With broad grin she rose to leave, and this time, Ziva didn't talk her into staying. Instead, the agent walked her friend to the door, and thanked her.

"I am glad we did this, Abby," she said, her voice heavily accented in her exhaustion.

"Me too, Ziva." Abby gave her an honest grin, and then moved to open the door.

"Abby, wait—" Ziva's voice made the scientist pause. She looked back at her, only to find her friend apprehensive once more.

"Yeah?"

Ziva hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I—I would like to ask you to keep one more secret for me," she said in a rush. "I know I have no place to ask, but—" Abby waited patiently. "I would be in your debt, if you did not tell Tony and McGee about me seeing the therapist. I do not want to give them any more reason to doubt me."

Abby's eyes widened. "Oh, Ziva… They wouldn't, not for that—"

"Abby. Please."

The agent's tone was so tender, so tired, that Abby couldn't do nothing more than acquiesce. "Of course I won't tell them. Pinky promise." She extended her own pinky finger for a shake, but when Ziva only glanced at it quizzically, she abandoned the gesture. "I won't."

"Thank you," Ziva sighed.

"Can I ask for something in return, though?" Abby added quickly.

Ziva's brow furrowed warily. "You can ask…"

"Right. Well, I was just wondering…" Her lips tightened nervously. "Can I hug you?" she blurted out.

Ziva's brown eyes widened in surprise, and then seemed to soften all in a single moment. She looked away quickly as her brows drew together and her lips pressed together firmly. For a long moment, it seemed as though Abby would either be denied, or be confronted with a tearful Ziva; but then, small and quick, she received an affirmative nod.

Abby grinned, and then carefully wrapped her arms around the smaller woman. Her embrace was firm, but careful not to be too constrictive. She was surprised when Ziva's slender, warm arms returned the gesture, her small hands pressing flat against her back.

"Thank you," the agent whispered. "For asking." Abby pulled away then, but only responded with a smile. Ziva grinned back, her eyes sparkling in the light of the apartment. "But, you do not have to ask every time. That would be inconvenient, yes?"

"Are you sure? I don't mind—"

"I am sure, Abby. Just—do not move too quickly when you come closer."

Abby bucked up her chin, her lips pouting ever so slightly in determination. "I can definitely do that," she declared. She carefully moved in for another quick hug. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Laila tov, Abby."

And with that, Abby left the apartment. She gave one last wave before she disappeared from Ziva's sight, and then trotted down the stairwell and out to the parking lot. As soon as she bundled herself into her hot rod she was on her way home, but she felt no need to rush. She smiled the entire way to her own apartment, and when she woke up the next morning, she smiled the entire way to the Navy Yard. She was still smiling when Gibbs came to visit her.

"Gibbs!" she exclaimed excitedly as soon as she saw him. She threw her arms around him affectionately. "What took you so long? You're usually here right when I have news, and now, I have _great_ news!" She knew from the gleam in his eyes that he knew she was referring to Ziva.

"Have a good time last night?" he asked as soon as Abby released him enough to suck in enough air.

Abby beamed. "The best! And oh my gosh, I had totally forgotten how amazing her cooking is! Have you tried that cranberry juice she makes? How did she even think of that? And we talked for hours!"

Gibbs grinned. "Thanks for making the effort, Abs."

"Oh jeez, not you too!" Abby wrinkled her nose. "You two have this really annoying habit of thanking me for things that friends just naturally do. Well, I guess it's not really annoying… more like endearing. But I'm not accepting any of those thank-yous anyway, because—"

"Abs," Gibbs interrupted, prompting Abby's ramble to peter off as she grinned sheepishly. He sighed. "So, friends again, huh?"

"Oh, I definitely think so," Abby responded, her tone serious despite her smile. "And if not yet, well, I think we're certainly getting there. You know, it is so amazing, to see Ziva like that. She's like totally well-adjusted."

Suddenly, the smile on her dark lips disappeared, and in its place was a fierce determination that glared at him with searing intensity. Gibbs' brow rose ever so slightly at the transformation, but remained silent as the scientist confronted him.

"But as much as she is well-adjusted, she's still hurting, Gibbs. She has more pain than anyone else in the world I bet, even though she'd never admit it. And she's my friend, so I'm going to tell you this once, and one time only. And even though usually I'd threaten you with my superior forensic skills that would enable a guiltless murder, I know you'd never believe me if I threatened you with that… But don't think for a second that I am any less serious, got it?"

When all she got was an attentive quirk of his eyebrow in response, she placed her hands on her hips. But ultimately, she decided to let it go. She pegged him with a hard look.

"If I find out that you, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, have become part of that pain she has or that you've added to it in absolutely any way—I will never, ever talk to you again."

Abby continued to glare at him, until he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I'll hold you to that," he said quietly.

Abby blinked in surprise at his response, and when she opened her eyes again he was gone. The ding of the elevator opening reassured her that he simply didn't just turn to mist—because if he could turn to mist, why would he bother to wait for the elevator?

But then again, she reasoned to herself, it didn't really matter if he could turn to mist, did it? As awesome as mist-abilities would be, in light of everything else, her silver-haired fox had it pretty good as it was. He was still a strong, silent, smart, and inexplicably _lucky_ SOB. He was lucky because his first three qualities were somehow enough to snag someone as awesome as Ziva.

Abby sighed wistfully to herself as she turned back to her Major Mass Spec. She couldn't have chosen a better match for Gibbs even if she tried. But still, there was one thing that bothered her, and after a moment of silent contemplation, she decided to assume responsibility for it.

If that irritating M. Allison—which was _totally_ Mallison—Hart came anywhere near Abby's new favorite couple, well…

It would be safe to say the world would be less one annoying attorney.

----

_A/N: There we go. All is well with Team Gibbs! Just some disclaimers-- I do not own Post-It, nor do I get money from them. Any other recognizable brand names are not my own, and are thus intended to be for reference only. Also, I have no idea if cranberry juice with honey and cinnamon would be good. It just seemed a Martha Stewart meets Israel type of thing to include. And it DID sound good. I might try it at some point, at which point I will report back on how it tastes. _

_Hope you liked the outcome of this dilemma. Now Abby knows, which means I'll prolly be using her more, though I'm thinking I might take a break from this story for a while. A break meaning-- one week (until the next new episode) in which I'll be trying to update some of my other stories. Apocalypse is up next, and then maybe something that started as something for Senseless but turned into its own one-shot. And then Betrayal. Please don't hate me for what happened to What If. I have something in mind for that, but it will require a butt-load of research to pull it off, so it will be a while in coming. _

_Thanks for sticking with me!_


	43. A Perfect Storm Pt 1

A/N: A late response to Mother's Day, mostly because it was bugging me and slightly because it had to happen eventually. I was going to wait for Apocalypse to be done first, but that one is taking too long, and a new episode is on tonight, so I'm celebrating.

This chapter is in two parts (you'll see why), uploaded simultaneously. Please let me know what you think-- it was definitely a challenge to write, so feedback and CONSTRUCTIVE criticism would be great.

* * *

Gibbs knew he was in trouble the moment he saw Ziva's car pull into the driveway. The casefile had been turned in by now, and he knew that she had been the first to read what had transpired in the basement. Vance had been more than accommodating—a slight surprise given his occasionally overbearing self-righteousness—and had been willing to sweep the whole case under the rug. Nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

But Ziva wasn't so accepting.

_No_, Gibbs reasoned when he noticed her brusque movements as she threw the car in park and swiftly exited the vehicle before making her way up to the front door. She was upset, and this time, Gibbs wasn't sure exactly what it was that she would hate him for more.

For keeping secrets? For going to Hart for help? For throwing the case?

All were likely foci of the tongue-lashing that was sure to come, and Ziva could choose all or any of them and be completely within her rights to do so. Gibbs had known when he'd continued to dig himself deeper into the case that he'd be hard-pressed to explain himself to her.

He'd known going in that nothing about the case would go unnoticed by Ziva. Sending her to the desert with DiNozzo for a few days had made it slightly easier for him to do what he needed to, but he'd also known that it'd only be a matter of time before it all came back to bite him in the end.

And it seemed that time had come.

He'd expected a furious Ziva, an indignant Ziva, who would come storming into his house demanding an explanation. But the Ziva he found closing the door behind her was burning with such a subdued intensity that Gibbs was almost fearful.

He'd never seen _this_ Ziva before, and he was at a loss to know how to react.

Just as he was at a loss to offer insight into his actions, the explanation brown eyes silently begged for when she turned to look at him. He'd had something prepared, a speech ready to be delivered the moment she stepped through the door… but the look of hurt—of _distrust—_stole his words away.

The silence persisted for several minutes, as neither one had the strength to speak first. But finally, Ziva took a deep breath, and made the first step.

"I do not know what to think," she said softly. Her eyes refused to meet his, giving him ample opportunity to notice her fingers coming up to finger the lone dogtag around her neck.

_She still wears it_, Gibbs thought to himself. Pride washed through him for a short moment, before he then noticed the nervous movements of her slender fingers as she ran her fingertips over the smooth metal tag, just as she used to do with her Star of David.

"About what?" Gibbs prompted. The question was an honest one. There were quite a few things she could be uneasy about, and he knew better than to try and guess which she was referring to.

"About you."

Her response nearly knocked the breath out of him, but she either didn't notice or refused to acknowledge it as she continued on.

"About you, about the case, your mother-in-law." Her voice grew in strength, slowly gaining momentum. "None of it."

"Ziver, I'm sor—"

"No." Her tone suddenly turned scathing. "Don't. Don't you dare tell me you are sorry. Do not break your rule and make me suddenly feel sorry for you. Because I know you do not really mean it. If you were sorry, you would not have done it in the first place."

Gibbs refused to point out that he still wasn't entirely sure what she referring to specifically. She'd get to it soon enough.

"You do not even realize the thin line you're on, do you?" she continued. "What you did, with Hart…"

A spark of realization flashed in Gibbs's mind. "Ziva, the pizza and beer didn't mean anything—"

"Please," she interrupted with sneer. "Do not insult me by thinking I actually feel _threatened_ by that snake of a woman."

Gibbs abruptly shut his mouth.

"That woman is an idiot, in any case. It was too tempting to resist, wasn't it? She was simply too easy to manipulate. You had her number the moment she showed up here that night, uninvited and unexpected. And you used that, for this case— the case you should have recused yourself from the moment you saw Joann Fielding."

There was an accusation to her voice that sent a shudder arcing down his spine. She'd never spoken to him with such contempt before, and it was now dripping from her words like acid. But then she stopped, and took a deep breath—when she continued, her voice had softened.

"You have never hidden your ability to pull people's strings before, I know that. And I understand your desire to protect Shannon's mother, I do. I should have realized that you would do everything you could to protect her, both out of a sense of loyalty and to honor Shannon's memory. You had to save her, because you had no chance to save Shannon."

Her words wavered then, faltering ever so slightly at the mention of the family he'd had before her. It surprised him—she'd never shown any kind of jealousy or insecurity when it came to his first wife. She'd accepted their role in his life just like she had everything else about him that was outside the norm. All of the things that had driven Hollis Mann away, Ziva had taken in stride.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why she suddenly seemed so uneasy about it, but kept his ruminations to himself as Ziva pressed on.

"It is all so familiar… so frighteningly familiar. Because I have only ever seen that kind of disrespect for the law from one other man in my life. The only person with power to decide a person's fate so permanently, to warp the laws you are supposed to uphold in the name of God and country."

Gibbs knew in an instant who she was referring to, and the knowledge turned his stomach nauseatingly. But she clarified nonetheless.

"My father," she spat.

Against his will, Gibbs flinched. He didn't know if she'd seen it, but if she had, she didn't give any indication.

"And perhaps the worst part of all this is that I have no reason to be upset with you. I knew what you did for Shannon and Kelly, to avenge their murders, even when her mother had no idea. I know what you did for me, when I killed Ari, even when you had no reason to. And I know that you would give your life for any one of us and not blink an eye.

"I should have known that you would do everything in your power to keep Joann from facing the penalty of her crime," she concluded.

Gibbs detected notes of self-reproach in her voice, so absurdly out of place that he wanted to protest, to shake some sense into her right then and there. But he was frozen, unable to do anything but stand there and allow her to press on uninterrupted.

"But I did not. I thought your devotion to justice would keep you from abusing the power you wield. But it did not, and I am the fool for believing otherwise." Tears clouded her voice then.

"But… Damn it, Jethro…" she brushed angrily at her eyes, as if angry with herself for allowing her weakness to show.

"I do not _want_ that in my life anymore. I do not want to have to wonder what the people in my life are capable of, or what they may be lying about, or what secrets of yours _I_ will have to stand behind.

"I am tired of shadows and dirty dealings. I am tired of lies and deceit and loss of trust. Those are what put me in the desert, Jethro, and I refuse to go back there again!"

She drew a shaky breath, and delivered the blow that gripped Gibbs' gut in a vise.

"I am done with it. I am done with all of it."

She finally blinked, and the tears that had been building spilled down her cheeks, breaking Gibbs' heart as they fell. He tried to say something, say anything, but he couldn't get anything past the pain in his chest.

He watched with heavy spirits as she turned and left, just as subdued as she had come.

_She didn't mean it_, he told himself after the door clicked shut behind her and the engine turned over before disappearing down the street. She was just tired, and frustrated, and…

Betrayed.

He sank like a stone onto the single chair that stood in the empty living room, unwilling to sit on the same couch he had so recently shared with Hart. He hadn't meant to hurt Ziva—that had been the last thing on his mind. In an ideal world, he would have included her in every aspect of this case. In an ideal world, he wouldn't have needed to use the counselor like he had.

And in an ideal world, he would have been a stronger man, and told Joann all about Ziva, and the soon-to-be-American's significance in his life.

Of all the things Ziva deserved, it was to be known as his partner, his… what?

_Lover_ seemed so inadequate now, as did the simple label of _girlfriend_. But she was more than just a subordinate now, and the case had never once been truly professional, so the probationary agent should have played a more intimate role. He should have included her, explained to her why he'd done what he did.

But he'd made the wrong decision— he'd kept her in the dark, a darkness he knew she'd been trying to break free of.

And he'd proven that he was no better than her father—a fact that made him burn with shame.

_Your father… he's not a good guy_.

Wasn't that what he had so bluntly informed her last year? As if she'd needed someone to say the brutal truth aloud. So… what did that make him?

The realization took his breath away, and was quickly followed by an equally overwhelming comprehension that threatened to send him reeling. He was suddenly faced with the possibility that she was done with _him_.

She was right. She'd been though too much to have to deal with all the subterfuge. And the moment she'd revealed to him just how hopeless she'd felt when she'd gone alone to Saleem's camp, he'd sworn to himself that he would see to it that she never had to question her loyalties again.

And yet here he was. _He_ was the one who was dragging her back into the world of secrets and lies. He'd abused her trust, and her love, when what she needed most was someone she could have unwavering faith in.

Suddenly, Gibbs felt the weight of what had happened settle on his shoulders in a stranglehold. He closed his eyes, and saw her leaving for good, leaving him as empty and desolate as his house was. Because he couldn't go after her. She deserved more than what he'd given her. And even if he did go, she wouldn't listen. She _shouldn't_ listen.

His head fell to his hands, but his eyes were dry. The knot in his chest grew, and all he could think was how he had screwed up. He didn't move from the chair the entire night, waiting for her ritual phone call, waiting for a chance to speak to her again.

But for the first time in months, Ziva's nightly phone call never came.

It was in that moment he realized that despite his exhaustion, despite the inconvenience of waking at 0200h to talk her down after a nightmare—he relied on the consistency of their routine just as much as she did.

And with that realization came the crushing reality of knowing that, in doing what he'd been so certain had been _right…_

He may have destroyed the one thing in his life that truly mattered.


	44. A Perfect Storm Pt 2

Ziva sat in her darkened apartment, with only the pale moonlight pouring through the bare windows to illuminate the room around her as she lost herself in thought. She'd already cleaned her apartment and her weapons, as well as gone for a long run and a trip to the gym the day before, leaving her with nothing but her emotions to focus on. She hadn't slept, not since her brief, tumultuous sojourn to Gibbs' house the night before.

She was both grateful and resentful that it was a weekend; going to the Navy Yard feeling as she was would not have been pleasant, or easy to explain, but at least it would have given her something else to occupy herself with.

Now she had nothing to do but sit and think, and sink further and further into the recesses of her thoughts. Her fingers traced the raised etchings on the metal tag around her neck, finding comfort in the simple action the same way she had with her old golden pendant.

Her mind echoed with the words she had thrown at Jethro, and behind her eyes she could see the expression of shock and hurt that had stared back at her the few times she'd found the strength to look at him.

She'd been the one to cause that, she recognized.

_But_, a small voice inside of her pointed out, _what about what he had caused in__** her**__?_

The turmoil and anger she felt now—that was because of him. He was supposed to safe. He was her stronghold in this new life she was struggling to make for herself. But now the glaring truth had been presented to her, and she had been forced to react.

Had she reacted badly? Maybe. She certainly could have been more judicial in her protest of his actions. But words had never been her strong suit. Even he, a relatively silent man, always had the presence of mind to say what needed to be said in the gentlest of ways.

She had no such tact. Her father hadn't taught it to her—instead, she was adept at telling people what they needed to hear, in order to get what she needed. She played on their desires and insecurities…

Was that what she had done last night?

Her heart sank when she realized, she didn't know. She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure about _anything_. She'd thought she'd been certain in her understanding of Gibbs, but she wasn't. Not after feeling the shock she had while reading the case report, after learning from a casefile how he had so irresponsibly attempted to arrest Joann Fielding.

He'd done it with full knowledge of what he was doing, she knew that for a fact. It was a rookie mistake, one even she, as a probationary agent, wouldn't have made. And to have Hart on hand to witness it, to ensure that any consequent attempts to arrest the older woman wouldn't have held up in court.

He'd orchestrated it all perfectly, and that was what scared her. The ease with which he'd pulled everyone's strings reminded her too much of how her father operated, how he masterfully warped other people's lives to further his own purpose. Gibbs was supposed to be the antithesis of who her father was, and yet…

She could not ignore the events that had transpired, nor could she brush aside the sudden uncertainty she felt for the discoveries she had made. Doing so would destroy everything she had managed to create for herself in her new life—she would be reverting back to what her father had created: a spectator and occasional participant who looked the other way when legitimacy was called into question. She was done being that person.

But at the same time, everything she wanted to be rested on the man she had so ably hurt. It had never been her intention, to rely so heavily on one person. However, owning and living in her own apartment and creating new boundaries could do nothing to change the fact that he was a part of her future, this precious future that had suddenly been put in peril.

Ziva froze, suddenly feeling as though her veins had turned to ice.

Her eyes widened, then hardened in determination. The next instant she was gone, barely taking the time to lock the door behind her before tearing down the silent stairwell.

She was barely aware of the empty roads that led her to her destination, barely conscious of the red lights she actually heeded for once. Her mind was focused one thing, and one thing only. Her bones ached from the barely controlled panic, desperation, and need that reverberated throughout every fiber of her being.

Before she knew it she was out of the car and inside the same house she had so angrily left 24 hours ago. It was dark, and silent, but she knew he was home. He was always home, even when he didn't have a boat to work on. The only place he would have gone for comfort was 3,000 miles away on a beach in Mexico, and he wouldn't have gone there. At least, not yet.

She saw the basement door open and immediately moved towards it, only half cognizant of the action until she was already down the wooden stairs with her feet planted firmly on the concrete. But the moment she saw the darker shadow amidst the gloom, the world came rushing back into sharp focus.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the faint outline of the bourbon bottle, as well as the recently used jar that stood next to it. Farther down the workshop she saw the pile of the screws that had previously inhabited the jar, scattered haplessly in what she could only imagine had been a fit of rage.

The smell of the alcohol was fresh in the air, but she knew that by now it was mostly because the bottle was still open. She'd learned long ago the difference between the scent of alcohol in the air, and of alcohol on the breath. If he had been drinking all this time, the pungent aroma would have been tainted, musty—not the crisp fragrance that now tickled her nose.

But he had been drinking, that much was certain, probably just after she had left. Perhaps to take the edge off… the edge she had created. The knowledge weighed on her heart—he had never been one to turn to alcohol as a crutch. He was a social drinker, and used alcohol to unwind. Not to dull pain.

She pressed her lips together against the guilt that took root in her chest, and took a step deeper into the basement, towards the hunched form sitting on one of the two sawhorses in the far corner of the room. He wore the same clothes he had been wearing the last time they had spoken, his elbows resting dejectedly on denim clad knees. His hands hung limply from his wrists, though Ziva would have preferred to see them balled into fists.

She was familiar with fists. She could handle the anger, the violent rage that clenched fists threatened. What she couldn't handle was the despair that seemed to permeate every inch of his body, the slack despondency that left his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, even though she knew he had heard her entrance.

She wrapped her arms around her herself in a last ditch attempt for inner strength before she finally took a shaky breath.

"Jethro..." Her voice was soft, and careful. "I…"

She closed her eyes against the realization that she had no idea what to say. Nothing she could possibly tell him would erase what had been said, and all of the standard platitudes running through her mind would only be insulting, both to him _and_ herself.

To her surprise, Gibbs came to her rescue.

"You're right," he offered, his own voice flat.

"Yes," she agreed, bolstered by a flash of her earlier anger. She shouldn't be the one feeling guilt here—should she? "Which is why I am not here to apologize."

"Then why _are_ you here?" he fired back, the life flooding back into him as he straightened indignantly. The change both comforted Ziva, and fueled her to press when every instinct was telling her to pull back, to withdraw before she got burned again.

"I don't know. I don't know, and I think—" Where the words last night had flowed all too easily, she now had to struggle to spit the words out, only feeding her frustration. "I think that is what is wrong with me."

"Ziver—"

"No, Gibbs. Do not say anything. There is nothing you can say, not this time."

And in an instant, the fire in his eyes dampened.

"I understand," he said thickly, though Ziva knew he was simply telling her what he thought she needed to hear. There was no trace of understanding in his voice, and her blood began to boil when she discovered the thin veil of acceptance he'd managed to throw up was only there to appease her. To coddle her.

"No, you do not understand, Jethro. You cannot understand when even I do not _understand_." Electric blue eyes flashed up to meet hers. "I do not understand how I can become the person I want to be, the person my father did _not _raise me to be, when I love someone who pulls the same kind of stunts he can. I do not understand how I can claim to be regaining my independence when I have simply shifted my affections from one manipulator to another. And for the love of God I cannot understand why I do not give a damn that you did what you did. Why I can turn my back on my father, but fall so deeply—"

Tears dampened her cheeks, blurring her vision into a mass of foggy shadows. But she could hear him rise from his perch and pad carefully closer. She turned her head from him, and he stopped, wary of encroaching without her go-ahead.

She was grateful for the reprieve, unready for his forgiveness or the comfort he wanted to offer. She hadn't wanted to cry in front of him, not for this. She'd already cried too much in front of him—the last thing she wanted was to let him see her cry _because _of him.

She took a moment to take a steadying breath, wiping at her eyes with the long sleeve of her shirt, silently cursing herself for her weakness as she did so. But then she closed her eyes, her own shoulders slumping with a sigh.

"Does that make me a bad person?" Her voice was tremulous, much to her chagrin, but in the end—she didn't care. "Here I am, trying to pretend I am so much better than he is, trying to prove that I am above all of that…"

"I don't think it does," Gibbs said softly, kindly, but she barely heard it.

"I have been so concerned with trying to turn myself into this… this champion of good, that I have lost sight of who I really am. I should have known that I could not completely change, but after becoming a probationary Field Agent, and the process of becoming a citizen… I got swept up in the idea that anything was possible. But now that I know it is not possible for me to be the person I wished I could be, I realize that I no longer have the old me either."

She took a deep breath, feeling strength flood her once again.

"You were the person I was trying to be, Jethro. I was moulding myself into an image of you, because of all the people I have met, you have always been the most upstanding, the most straight-forward. In most aspects of your life, what people see is what they get—even though you still have your secrets. But reading that file, realizing what you did… it reminded me. It reminded me that what I was searching for, what I thought I had found in you—It does not exist.

"But if _that_ does not exist, then what about everything else? Becoming a citizen, an agent… does that mean anything? They are just two more identities to put in my profile, meaningless without the impossible change of heart to go with them. I feel… I feel like the life I have chosen for myself, a life away from my father and Mossad—that life was supposed to be modeled after yours. And now that illusion is gone, and there is nothing left but more hypocrisy."

Ziva could hear the melancholy creeping into her voice, and immediately clamped down on it. That wasn't what she had come here for. But she couldn't pause long—if she did, she would think herself out of continuing. And she had to keep going, or else none of the rest would mean a damn thing.

"And maybe I should be telling this to Dr. Rodriguez," she pushed on, letting her mouth take over. "Maybe she should be the one trying to make sense out of all of this. But I can't go to her for this, for the same reason I_ should_ be going to her—because the only thing I can make sense of on my own is the fact that regardless of everything that has happened, I can only see you."

Her voice started to break once more, and her cheeks dampened with tears. But she cleared her throat stubbornly, and continued.

"I can only see you in my future. I want to be with you more than I want to be a citizen, more than I want to be a special agent, and more than I want to prove my father wrong. Even though I have been trying to distance myself from you, trying to not need you so much, you are the only thing I never wanted to change."

She paused again, but only long enough to take a steadying breath.

"The feelings I have for you are dangerous, Jethro. Too dangerous. The thought of living without you pains me more than anything I have felt before in my life."

It was true. Somalia's hell couldn't compare to the wrenching of her gut when she considered a life without him.

"I rely on you too much, even separated as we are. The situation we have now, living apart, it helps with the physicality, and it _is_ helping me heal. But it does nothing for how much I need you emotionally. And I cannot live like this anymore."

She finally met his gaze again, and found his eyes frozen with what could only be described as fear.

"Things cannot continue how they are. However, I cannot come back to live with you, not yet. My need for independence is still too great for my want of intimacy. But existing in limbo like I am now, half in your life, half out—It is driving me mad. How can I focus on getting my life how it should be when all I can think about is how _we_ are supposed to be? What this is now… it is not healthy. Not for either of us."

She watched sky blue eyes darken into the color of a stormy sea, and was suddenly filled with trepidation. What she had to do—it really was for the best. Wasn't it? She was no longer so certain.

"I think it is obvious what must happen now," she pressed on, not giving herself a chance to back out.

The fire that had filled him a few minutes before vanished again, but his fist clenched tightly at his side. But Ziva could handle fists, and she blinked away her nerves and her doubts before biting the bullet and voicing the words she hoped would make clear everything that had just come tumbling from her lips.

"Will you marry me?"


	45. Forty two

_"Will you marry me?"_

Gibbs blinked once, then twice. His brow furrowed involuntarily, trying to ascertain whether he had heard her properly. Then he met her gaze, and saw it steady, unwavering.

In the next instant, Gibbs realized that he similarly lacked any sense of doubt.

"Absolutely," he answered, his voice firm and definite. Finally closing the last few feet of distance between them, he watched as her lips curled into a smile while her eyes lit up. His hands came up to frame her face gently, the contact gentle and intimate as he gave her a smile of his own.

"But not now," he added softly.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "I did not mean this very moment, Jethro—"

"Not next week, not next month, maybe not even next year," he told her. When her expression started to fall, with traces of confusion and disappointment creeping into her features, he continued. "I'm not second-guessing, Ziver, and I'm not trying to keep my options open. My spending the rest of my life with you has been a done deal for a long time now."

His spirits lifted when he felt her features crease into a happy smile under his fingers.

"But you're not ready—_we're_ not ready. Between the two of us we have more secrets and skeletons in our closets than we know what to do with. We still have a lot to get through, and we don't need to throw planning a wedding into the mix."

Ziva nodded. "I know. But I need the reassurance of knowing that you will still be waiting for me. I do not want that part of my future to be uncertain. Because you are the one thing I am certain about."

Her hands came up to rest against his hips, her touch familiar and warm.

"I love you," she said softly.

"Even after…?"

She gave a heavy sigh. "Yes. Even after this case. It bothers me, but I think… it is because of _me_ that it is so unsettling. I meant what I said—it surprised me, even though it should not have. I _know _you, Jethro. But still, it was…" She paused to find the words. "It was like the time I poked a paper clip into a power outlet. I was unprepared, and I—"

"Got _zapped_?" Gibbs fought to keep the chuckle from his voice, but failed. She gave his hips a sharp squeeze, only making him laugh outright. "I'm sorry, I just have a hard time seeing you as a kid who stuck metal objects into live sockets."

"I was seven, and Ari dared me to do it," she expounded, attempting to justify the actions of her younger self with a sheepish grin. "But that was not my point. I have been working myself up too much about trying to change." The mirth left her eyes, and instantly back to business. "I need to get my head straight."

"And you will. I'll help you."

"You have done all you needed to." Brown eyes looked up at him with an uncertain longing that seemed out of place, too vulnerable after the fierce words that had just been sent his way. "If you are serious—"

"I am." His tone left no room for doubt. "If you aren't sure of anything else, be certain of this: When the time is right, I will get you a ring, and I will get down on my knee and beg for the honor of being your husband." His grin broadened at the thought of it.

"And I _will_ marry you, Ziva David. I will marry you in front of friends and family, before God and country. You will be my wife and I will be your husband, and heaven help anyone who tries to stop us."

Moisture tickled the tips of his fingers, and Gibbs realized that she was crying once more. This time, though, he knew the tears were not ones of anger or frustration or hurt—but of joy.

"That is all I need. _That_ certainty—Nothing else matters."

Her hands drifted up from his waist, until they rested against the hands framing her face. Slender fingers wrapped around his wrists in a tender hold.

Suddenly, the relief of realizing his worst fears had _not _been realized finally washed over Gibbs, and his own tears began to cloud his vision. His head dipped until his forehead rested against Ziva's, where he took a shaky breath.

"God, I love you," he whispered.

Her only response was to smoothly tilt her chin forward, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. Surprise kept him from doing anything more than simply receiving it, but then his senses returned, and he kissed her back. It was a simple touch, but it sent Gibbs' heart racing even while his gut turned to mush. Their tears mingled, until Gibbs finally had the presence of mind to delicately wipe hers from the flushed skin of her cheeks.

They parted a timeless moment later, but Gibbs immediately pulled her into a strong embrace. She didn't resist, didn't even flinch—she melted into him, just like she used to. He savored the contact where her body pressed against his, their combined heat warming him from the inside out.

He was achingly aware of how close he had come to losing her; not to gunfire, or an undercover operation, or to terrorists… but to stupidity. The acknowledgement of just how close left him shaken, and willing to go his whole life without feeling that way again.

"Please," he whispered huskily, unable to keep the desperate plea from his voice, "don't ever scare me like that again."

This time her arms clutched him tighter in silent reply, her hands pressing against his back with a vulnerable fervor that prompted him to press a kiss to her brow. But then her head buried itself in his shoulder, and, if it were at all possible, she relaxed even further into his hold.

They remained like that for several minutes. But then the silence was broken by Ziva's amused huff of air that tickled his skin.

"What?"

He felt her grin against his shoulder before the muffled reply met his ears.

"I am supposed to be asserting my independence, and then I go and get myself engaged." Her shoulders lifted in a silent chuckle. Then a moment later she groaned, causing him to instinctively hold her a little bit closer, even as he grinned when she continued.

"My therapist is going to kill me."


	46. The Pleasure of Guilt

He watched Holly Snow glide out the front door, then turned back to the card table to find a mess of paper plates and empty beer bottles staring back at him.

He simply sat there for a moment, Holly's words echoing in his ears.

_Dinner without expectations_.

Slowly, his lips creased into a grin. Pulling out his cellphone, he typed in a familiar number and waited. One moment passed, then two. Finally, he heard the other end pick up.

"It's me," he said simply. "Everything went fine."

He paused, listening.

"Well, I have some extra steak here. Thought you might be interested in sharing a meal."

Another pause, and then he smiled.

"See you soon."

---

She'd told him she'd be over as soon as she could, which he assumed would be the fifteen minutes it took to get from her apartment to the house, but five minutes later he heard the door—which he hadn't bothered to lock after Holly left—open with a soft creak.

He crossed the living room to greet her, and was surprised to see her in full running gear, cheeks rosy and skin damp with sweat.

"You caught me on the way back from my run," Ziva said with a sheepish grin, slightly breathless. "I figured we would not be going anywhere special, and I know my running shorts do not bother you."

He smirked. Oh, those shorts bothered him all right—just not in the way she meant.

"You know I love seeing you," he told her, "no matter what you wear. I wouldn't have even minded if you'd come in your birthday suit."

That one earned him a sly, knowing smirk.

"Oh, I am sure you would have actually preferred it," she purred, letting him slip his arms around her waist. Her own arms wrapped around his neck as she pecked him lightly on the lips. He tasted salt on her lips, and his skin instantly flushed.

He pulled away then, before his body began to respond in more obvious ways. She let him go, without question or concern. He didn't push, and neither did she.

"You have been cooking in the fireplace again," she pointed out. Brown eyes slid across the room. "And you have some new furniture."

"The table has been in the garage for over a decade," Gibbs responded easily. "The lamp is on loan from Abby."

He grinned.

"She's using it as collateral for you moving back in. She wants it back as soon as you do."

Ziva arched an eyebrow. "A… reverse hostage?"

"Something like that," Gibbs grinned.

Ziva sighed. "I am glad she knows about us," she said. "It makes everything feel more real."

Gibbs pulled one of the folding chairs from beneath the table, and then helped her slide it under her as she sat. Grabbing a clean plate, he crossed to the fire and carefully slid the freshly grilled steak from the rack. He set the plate in front of her as she plucked a plastic fork from the clutter, and went back to the fire to collect his own steak—his second for the night.

"It's always felt real to me," he told her simply, crossing back to sit adjacent from her.

Her gaze lowered to her plate. "It is difficult for me to be as certain, when I wake up alone after having seen you die in front of me," she said.

Gibbs took it in stride. She'd been opening up to him more about her nightmares, though she still refused to share the worst of them. But he knew of how she sometimes dreamed she was back in the desert, with Saleem, only she wasn't alone. She'd told him how sometimes she'd be tied to that chair, forced to watch him, her lover, slowly bleed out in front of her.

He had his own nightmares about her dying, but his were different. They were horrific and left him cold sweats, but he always knew that it wasn't real. It terrified him, but there was always something about each one that alerted him to the fact it was nothing more than a dream.

But Ziva's dreams… After living a nightmare for so long, it was difficult for her to distinguish reality from memory. That was when she usually called him, regardless of the hour, just to hear his voice, and know for herself that he still breathing.

And that was why he always answered.

Gibbs watched her snag a piece of steak and when he saw her chewing it effortlessly, he grinned.

Ziva caught his stare, and arched a brow as she swallowed her mouthful. "What?"

Her query was drawn out, as close to a drawl as she'd ever get. Gibbs couldn't help but notice that her posture was loose, relaxed, and at ease. She'd positioned herself so that she was completely facing him—she trusted him.

"Just watching," he offered in explanation.

"Watching me chew?"

He nodded. "I'm glad to see the implants are working out for you."

"As am I," she replied honestly. "And I can now officially say that I still think your steak is better than the ones at the Adams House." She gave him a brilliant smile. "You used that beer idea I gave you, didn't you?"

Now it was his turn to grin. "Good eye," he affirmed. She only smirked.

"My eye had nothing to do with it." She paused for emphasis, her eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "But I assure you my tongue is equally good."

Her husky voice got Gibbs exactly where he didn't want, and he closed his eyes in an effort to keep control. The banter was easy and familiar—suggestive even— but in the past, it had always led to more intimate interaction… interaction she was not yet ready for.

He heard her shift in her seat, and opened his eyes to see her pulling away.

"I suppose things with Ms. Snow ended on good terms," she said softly, not meeting his gaze.

"Yeah…" Gibbs returned warily, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

"And you ended up doing more for her than she did for you, yes?"

"Where're you going with this, Ziver?"

She hesitated briefly before continuing. "I was just thinking… if you needed something, something I could not give you—I am sure Holly would be willing to accommodate."

"Accommodate? What—"

"You promised you would still be there, when I was ready, and I believe you. But I know, as a man, you have needs—"

"Ah, hell—"

"I would rather be the woman who knows her fiancé is getting satisfaction elsewhere than being so naïve that going over six months without sex is no problem—"

"Stop."

His voice was hard, cutting through her rambling with a single word. She obeyed, but still averted her gaze. But when his hand covered one of hers, shadowy brown eyes finally looked up at him.

"Just stop it, okay?" he told her, this time soft and tender. "I appreciate the consideration, but I have no desire to sleep with a random woman." He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "Holly and I are friends—that's it. No strings, no benefits." He regarded her with a stern glance. "You got me?"

Ziva nodded softly. "I just—I feel badly, that we are returning to normal, but that certain part of our lives is still off-limits. I know that sometimes I say things that get under your skin, because I cannot seem to censor myself around you, and I am starting to return to my old habits— but then I pull back. I am teasing you, and it is not fair. I want you to—"

"I said I'd wait, Ziver. I meant it."

This time, to his surprise, relief flooded her features.

"Thank you," she sighed.

Gibbs looked at her, confusion clearly writ on his features. She shook her head in shame.

"I—I told myself I would be okay with it, that it was only fair, but—" She gave a small, sheepish smile. "I am very glad you did not take me up on it."

His lips curled into a grin, and he settled back in his chair. He took a bite of his own steak, letting an explosion of flavor burst on his tongue. He was struck by the notion that even though he'd made it exactly the same as he had before, it tasted twice as good now that she was here.

It was then that he noticed she had yet to take up her fork again—she was the one staring this time.

"Eat your steak," he instructed around a mouthful of meat.

She smirked, giving a tiny eye roll, but obeyed.

"Yes, Dad."

The little dig took Gibbs by surprise, and he inhaled suddenly, choking on the bit of meat still in his mouth. He was able to cough the obstruction away with a minimal amount of reflexive tears, and when he could finally look at her once more, he found a pair of dancing brown eyes twinkling back at him.

Her lips were twisted into a tight-lipped smile, trying to hide the evidence of her mirth even as a snort of laughter caught in her throat. Then, with a laugh that could be passed off as a cough, white teeth emerged from between her lips to cheekily pluck a piece of meat from her fork, her eyes never once leaving his.

Despite the sudden, temporary discomfort, Gibbs' coughs soon turned into a chuckle, broken only when he took a long swig of beer to try and soothe his throat. That seemed to help, at least enough for him to find his voice.

"Cheeky little—"

But then he was coughing again, though his grin refused to be dislodged. It was then that Ziva lost it.

A clear, crystalline laugh filled the room, sending shivers down Gibbs' spine. His eyes remained glued to her form, taking in her scrunched eyes and broad smile. It had been months since such a beautiful sound had been heard in his house, and he couldn't help but notice how right it felt.

But then the moment passed, and he let his own mirth take over. With a growing smirk of false rage, he reached out towards her, letting his fingers drag along the length of her side, the area he knew to be sensitive to the proper ministrations.

True to form, she yelped in surprise. In a flash, she had deftly twisted out of his reach, still laughing. He followed, undaunted, even as she smoothly slid to her feet. One shared glance between them, and then they were off, tearing through the empty house. He tried to catch her, and she evaded him, grinning the entire way. He never came closer than a fingernail of her, but that didn't bother him. The thrill of the chase was more than enough, and never once did her smile dwindle to anything less than radiant.

They finally ended up back in the living room, flopping on the cushions out of breath but still laughing. When they finally had the breath to move, they simply repositioned themselves, so that they were sitting upright instead of lying sprawled across each other.

Gibbs found himself between the arm and Ziva, and he let his head fall back against the cushion in exhaustion. Ziva was just as lax, panting softly from their romp around the house. Glancing over at her, Gibbs could see the smile still warming her features. Seeing it fueled his own grin, and he simply sat there for several long minutes.

Finally, it was Ziva who broke the comfortable silence.

"The steak is cold," she observed.

He sighed. "Yeah."

Another moment passed, and then, with a groan, he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm gonna clear up." He arched his back, wincing slightly when several pops could be heard. "Won't take long."

She made no move to get up, and he was true to his word—clearing the table of bottles and paper plated didn't take long. But when he returned to the living room after putting the table away, he found Ziva curled up in the middle of the couch.

Asleep.

She'd kicked off her sneakers and pulled her feet onto the couch, bringing her knees close to her chest. To anyone else, being so compact would have seemed uncomfortable, but Gibbs could tell that she couldn't be more at ease. Her head rested easily on the cushion behind her, and her eyes were closed as her chest lifted gently with steady, even breaths.

Gibbs simply watched for a long moment, but then, silently, he went upstairs and retrieved a blanket from their bedroom.

He still thought of it as _their _bedroom. That part had never changed. Not in the days that followed her rescue, when she'd temporarily claimed the guest room, and not that short period of time where they'd been barely able to look at each other without bickering. Even now, with her living miles away, it was still theirs. Not his.

Theirs.

Just as silently as he had left, he returned to the living room and gently draped the blanket over her. She didn't stir, but he took it to mean that she was simply comfortable, and not that she had been having trouble sleeping. He'd seen her after so many nights without proper rest—with dark circles under her eyes, on edge and irritable, jumpy—but now she was resting peacefully, rosy cheeked and healthy.

Once she was shrouded in the warm blanket, Gibbs gingerly sat next to her, resuming his earlier seat. He leaned against the armrest, letting Ziva's warmth slowly creep over him. And as he let his body relax next to her, he detected a faint fragrance that surrounded them both.

Flowers and spice.

And in that moment, Gibbs realized he hated her therapist as much as he could hate anyone who helped Ziva so much.

Because as much as he could see the change in Ziva, as amazing the transformation was—with her sparkling eyes and easier smile— the therapist was the only one standing between him and having _this_ moment: watching her sleep, feeling her next to him after an evening of chasing her through the house, hearing her laugh.

Her therapist was the only one keeping him from having all of it every single night.

But even so, if not for this Dr. Rodriquez, would he even have this small taste of how their life _should_ be? If he were completely honest with himself, he knew it was entirely likely that he wouldn't. Who knew how bad she would have gotten had they not addressed her problems, if she had let her demons fester within.

Would he have been strong enough to keep her from the more severe effects of her trauma? He'd seen Marines and soldiers revert to self-harm to remind themselves how to feel, to remind themselves they were still more than empty shells. He'd seen men give up altogether, taking their own lives and letting those that cared about them find their bloody and mutilated corpses the next morning.

But that hadn't happened, Gibbs reminded himself.

She was healthy, more alive than she'd been in months. She didn't want to end her own life—she wanted to spend the rest of it with him.

Huh. Maybe she wasn't so sane after all.

Gibbs grinned, even as his eyes began to drift shut. Crazy or not, he was just as nuts.

And thank God for that.

---

When Ziva opened her eyes, the first thing she realized was that she was not in her apartment. She was not in her bed, or in her easy chair. She was on a couch, but not her couch.

But then she realized how pleasantly warm she was, and not because of the blanket she was burrowed under. No, the warmth was coming from whatever she was laying against.

And then the night before began to come back to her. She remembered steak and beer, joking and laughing, and finally relaxing on the couch. With him.

She knew from the steady, even movements of his chest rising and falling with each breath that her human pillow was asleep. It was still dark, time unknown, and sometime between then and now she had gone from sitting upright to lying along the couch, resting her head on Jethro's chest.

That rare moment of feeling absolutely weightless before fully waking up persisted for several precious seconds, and there was absolutely none of the apprehension that might have plagued her a few weeks ago. Her therapist had warned her not to get too close too soon, but she knew that nothing that felt that good could be bad.

She didn't pull away. Instead, as she felt herself drifting back into a comfortable sleep, her arms smoothly slid around his waist. Wrapping her arms around his torso allowed her to snuggle even closer to him, and their bodies seemed to meld together, fitting together as if they'd been made with the other in mind.

Ziva sighed contentedly, her lips curling ever so slightly in a soft smile as she drifted off to sleep.

If she'd looked up before closing her eyes again, she would have seen Gibbs' own smile, well aware of her movements the moment she'd shifted into wakefulness. She didn't feel the light arm that settled over her shoulders, completing the embrace. Nor did she hear the soft breath of air he released, letting himself surrender to the pleasance of his current circumstance.

Screw the therapist, he thought to himself.

Just for tonight.


	47. Her New Best Friend

The crime scene was brutal.

A Marine had been found during a sting operation on a suspected dog-fighting ring with possible ties to drug cartels in Venezuela. At least, they believed it had been a Marine. All that had been found was a pile of gnawed bones that just so happened to also have a pair of dog-tags jumbled among the masticated body parts.

Luckily, the local LEO in charge of the sting had worked with NCIS before, and knew better than to procrastinate in requesting the Major Case Response Team.

But somehow, news of the impending sting had been leaked, and all that was left of the ring was the pile of bones and twenty-seven slain dogs. The corpses of Dobermans, pit bulls, mastiffs, and mutts bred to have all the aggression possible littered the interior of the half-barn, half-warehouse structure that had been the main base of operations for the ring.

Whoever had been running things had tried to get rid of the evidence when they fled—killed all the dogs and doused the place in gasoline to try and burn it down. Luckily for those coordinating the sting, whatever had been used as an incendiary device had malfunctioned, leaving the structure and its contents intact.

And once EOD cleared the scene, NCIS had moved in.

A Marine on the wrong side of the law, unfortunately, was nothing new. But a Marine killed in the course of felonious activities aroused pressing questions, first and foremost being whether or not national security had been compromised. At first glance, the concept of trading government secrets to pay off gambling debts did not seem a likely connection, but as Ziva pointed out, that was what made it so brilliant.

Espionage and dog-fighting did not go hand-in-hand in most investigators' minds—most law enforcement would dismiss the possibility and simply focus on the dog-fighting, leaving the possible state secrets free to slip through the cracks and into terrorist hands.

But NCIS knew better than to make such assumptions.

However, right now, they had to focus on the scene itself, and that alone was proving more perilous than had been anticipated. Armed with their cameras and kits, they found it near impossible to navigate the site without stepping in the pools of blood, fecal matter, vomit, and urine that dirtied the floor. The stench was overwhelming, made even more unbearable by the distinctive, oppressive smell of gasoline that permeated the entire structure.

The scene stank of death, and even Gibbs was not unaffected.

He continuously swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat as he glanced at his team, to see how they were holding up. Each wore expressions of disgust and heartbreak. DiNozzo was relatively quiet—when he did let loose with a quip, Gibbs could tell it was more out of nervous discomfort than it was to get a rise out of his coworkers. McGee, with his slight phobia of unfamiliar dogs, was the picture of pity and woe as he documented the scene.

But it was Ziva that worried Gibbs the most.

She was pale, almost green in the shadows of the warehouse. Her eyes were guarded, even haunted, and her lips were pressed tightly together. There was a slight tremor to her hands, and Gibbs wondered if the darkness, heat, and stench of the place was proving too much for her, too similar to what she had survived in Somalia.

Ziva hadn't been sleeping well the past few nights, though only Gibbs had known that little tidbit. If not for the nightly phone calls that had been more distraught than they usually were, he would have had no indication that Ziva had been suffering. He wondered if her exhaustion would weaken her defenses, and put her at risk for a panic attack, but no answer was forthcoming. She didn't say anything though. She showed no signs of losing control, of succumbing to her memories. Gibbs watched her, and he knew that DiNozzo had noticed the same qualities he had. A shared look between the two men told Gibbs that his senior field agent would be keeping an eye on his partner until they left the scene.

And that was why, twenty minutes later, Gibbs had not noticed that Ziva had moved into the backfield of the property until a shout from another local LEO from the back echoed through the warehouse, nearly eclipsed by a round of ferocious, growling barks.

"Got a live one back here!" a male voice shouted, which was quickly followed by a yelp that told everyone listening that the dog in question had tried to attack him. "And it's a mean son of a bitch!"

But it wasn't until a familiar voice sounded throughout the structure that Gibbs started running.

"If you point that weapon towards that dog one more time, officer, you will find your trigger finger separated from her hand," Ziva threatened fiercely, her voice hard as stone, while Gibbs sprinted towards their voices.

He burst into the bright sunlight to find his agent and a single LEO in the far corner of the lot. As he approached, Gibbs could hear Ziva's continued ranting.

"And once I remove your finger, I will let you choose whether I feed it to the dog, or shove it so far up your—"

"Agent David," Gibbs interrupted before she could finish. "Report!"

"This _schmuck_ is threatening to destroy the only piece of evidence that is not contaminated with accelerant," Ziva told him, her voice scathing.

The officer tried to explain himself. "The dog tried to attack me!" he said, not an ounce of chagrin in his voice.

Ziva whirled on him, pegging him with a glare. "Allow me to tether a noose around your neck and leave you alone in the yard for a few weeks. See if you do not attack me when I stick a gun in _your_ face, you piece of—"

"Agent David." The heavy utterance of her name told her she was dangerously close to being reprimanded. She fell silent, though it was obvious she was more than unhappy to do so.

Gibbs jerked his chin at the LEO. "Leave," he ordered.

The man did so without protest, though he gave the back of Ziva's head a glare as he passed, clearly resentful the fact that she had challenged him. Gibbs gave him a look that sent him scurrying, which probably saved the officer from bodily harm, since Ziva's hands were clenched into fists when the man passed.

"That _pendejo_ should not have a badge, Gibbs," she hissed once the officer was out of her line of sight. "He was ready to kill a defenseless _dog_."

Gibbs looked, and for the first time saw the canine that had sparked the confrontation.

It was a young dog, evidenced by the feet that were too big for its body—though the exact age was difficult to determine, Gibbs estimated it to be no more than six months old. It was underfed, and Gibbs could count the ribs that pressed against its blood and mud-coated fur. It might have been brown, but its pelt was too obscured by the grime to be certain. But it _did_ have a long tail and floppy ears, that much was impossible to ignore.

Blood was crusted around the scruff of its neck, where its chain collar was cruelly embedded beneath the skin, which had been forced to grow around the foreign object. But the blood on its jowls concerned Gibbs the most.

Whose blood was it?

"Doesn't look all that defenseless, Ziver," he pointed out.

Ziva glared at him. "It is tethered, starved, and obviously terrified out of its mind. It is a victim, Gibbs, and that man was going to shoot it." Her gaze darkened.

It was then that Gibbs noticed that the long tail was tucked firmly between trembling legs, and the big blocky head was dipped warily, even as the pup stared up at the two of them with baleful brown eyes. But still, Gibbs hesitated.

Ziva gave an impatient sigh. "At the very least, the dog is evidence. There could be prints on the chain and leash, and I am certain Abby will be able to get something from the trace evidence in its fur." She gave him a long look. "Gibbs…"

"Fine," he said finally. "We'll get a local LEO to handle the dog and get it to NCIS."

"The hell we will."

The ferocity in her voice surprised Gibbs, but then made him want to smile. He didn't, though.

"All right," he conceded. "_You_ will assume custody of the dog and the evidence on it." He paused, then. "But you don't handle the dog alone."

"That is hardly necessary—"

"It is, we don't know how violent—Ziva!"

Indignation tinged with anger filled his voice when Ziva blatantly ignored him, turning her back to him in order to move towards the dog. She quickly shrugged out of her bulky NCIS jacket, tossing it aside along with the agency ball-cap she had been wearing. She stepped through the slippery mud with grace, moving with deliberate steps that were powerful but nonthreatening.

She stopped when the dog began to move away from her with each approaching step, and when she well still, so did the dog. It stared at her, but trembled in wariness. Gibbs watched as Ziva pulled a small Ziplock bag from her back pocket, crouching as she did so. It wasn't until she withdrew a piece of its contents that Gibbs recognized it as being filled with jerky.

"Are you hungry?" Ziva asked the dog softly. She extended her hand, the jerky at the tips of her fingers. The dog didn't move. "Come," Ziva prompted, "it will not bite you."

"Ziver…"

Gibbs' warning tone went unheeded, and Ziva retracted the tidbit of meat. After a moment's thought, she tore the jerky in two, and then offered both halves to the dog, who watched as if in curiosity.

"There," Ziva murmured softly. "You can really smell it now, huh?"

Gibbs watched, and sure enough, the dog's nostrils began to quiver as the first whiff of fragrant meat reached its olfactory tracts. Then the dirty nose began to twitch, as the dog actively sniffed the aroma emitted by the recently torn meat. With slow, hesitant steps, the dog crept towards Ziva.

As soon as it was within reach, the dog's tongue darted out, lapping the jerky from Ziva's palm. It took its prize a few feet away to consume it, and though it took less than thirty seconds for the meat to disappear, Ziva had another piece torn and waiting for the dog by the time the first piece had disappeared down the dog's gullet.

It was less hesitant when it went back for the second piece, and by the time the fourth piece was being scarfed down, the dog didn't bother moving away to eat. The dog downed the entire bag piece by piece, and when the bag was empty, it settled for licking every trace of the meat from Ziva's palm.

At some point, something clicked, and the dog's tail began to wag. Gibbs watched as Ziva's face immediately creased into a smile. Her free hand gently came up to rub behind the dog's ear. The dog's skinny body wriggled in excitement, momentarily shifting its attention to the new hand before returning to the source of its original focus.

But then, suddenly, the dog lunged towards Ziva, almost knocking her off balance with the force of its attack.

Gibbs reacted immediately, reflexively drawing his weapon from the holster on his hip. He was ready to shoot, but then he noticed that Ziva had not cried out, nor did she seem to be fighting the dog off. In fact, she wasn't in distress at all. She was _smiling_.

Both of her hands were now showering the dog with affection—careful to not aggravate the swollen skin on its neck—as the dog lavished her face with messy, wet kisses.

Gibbs holstered his weapon once more, giving a roll of his eyes when Ziva laughed lightly in delight.

"Oh, you're such a good dog," she crooned between darts of the dog's tongue. "Yes, you are a nice dog…" Gibbs watched from a respectful distance, but her eyes found him anyway.

He didn't miss the _I-told-you-so_ that silently smirked at him from behind her happy grin.

"Could you get the other end of the leash from the stake, Gibbs?" she asked in playful politeness. "I think this puppy is ready to be free." She turned her attention back to the dog. "Aren't you?"

The dog whined in response, barely pausing in its task to cover every inch of Ziva's face with affectionate slime.

Gibbs rolled his eyes, but moved to the stake nonetheless. A moment later, the leash was free, and the free end was being passed to Ziva's waiting hand.

She stood, and the dog moved excitedly around her, its gaze focused solely on Ziva's hands, no doubt hoping for more food. However, the lack of forthcoming treats did nothing to dampen its newly awakened spirits.

When Ziva began to lead the dog towards the parked vehicles towards the front of the property, Gibbs reached out and caught her arm. She froze, her brown eyes staring at him in expectation.

"The dog," he said carefully, his tone serious, "is evidence. Not a victim."

In an instant, Ziva's eyes hardened, and her jaw set in stubborn indignation. Her arm stiffened under his touch, a moment before she wrenched it from his grasp.

"A little empathy would not kill you, Gibbs," she sniped back, her voice acid. Then, a mirthless grin twisted her lips. "Oh, wait. I forgot. God forbid Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs be known to have a heart."

Gibbs knew the scene had her on edge. He knew she'd been having difficulty sleeping the past few nights. But her words still stung.

He let angry professionalism be shown rather than the hurt he felt.

"Get the dog to the vet, get the chain removed, and have Abby go over it and the dog with a fine-tooth comb."

Ziva nodded coolly. "I will call Abby on the way to the veterinarian," she replied tersely. She moved to leave, but at the last moment turned back to face him.

"I understand that evidence is important. But you should know by now that I would not compromise the collection of it." She glared at him. "And I refuse to be indifferent to what this dog has been through. The last thing it needs is one more person who doesn't care whether it lives or dies. _I_ care. It does not matter if this dog is the most aggressive dog in the tri-state area." She pointed to where the dog had previously been tethered.

"No living creature—dog or otherwise—deserves to live like that."

And then she was gone, leading the dog towards the vehicles. Gibbs watched as she approached Palmer, motioning towards the dog as she spoke to the young med student. The two spoke for a few moments, and then Ziva and dog disappeared into the back of the autopsy van. Palmer climbed into the driver's seat after exchanging a few words with Ducky.

When the truck pulled away, Ducky strode over to Gibbs, who stood solemnly in the back lot of the property.

"I allowed Mr. Palmer the use of the vehicle in order to deliver Agent David and her new ward to the nearest SPCA," the old man reported casually. "They are well-versed in the procedure of evidence collection, having more experience in animal abuse than your average veterinarian. Both Mr. Palmer and the vehicle will return after dropping the passengers off, by which time I hope our victim will be ready for transport back to the Navy Yard."

Ducky looked up at his old friend, who didn't acknowledge his words.

"Agent David seemed unusually tense," he commented carefully.

Gibbs flipped his notepad shut. "Uh huh," he replied dully.

"I was concerned the crime scene would trigger a flashback or panic attack, but she held herself together quite admirably. She is certainly a strong woman." The Scotsman paused. "She seems to be rather protective of the young pup, however."

"That dog might have killed our Marine, Duck."

"I am sure that possibility has crossed our young friend's mind as well," Ducky pointed out, "which makes me wonder why she has grown so attached to the animal. I would expect that kind of quick bonding from our young Abigail, but not Ziva. Ziva is too logical, too practical to fall victim to such whimsy. But then again, I do not think it is whimsy at all." He paused, gazing towards the now abandoned stake in the corner of the yard. "Is this where the dog was found, perhaps?"

"Yuh huh."

"Ah," Ducky remarked, as though coming to some conclusion. "Is it safe to assume the animal was restrained?"

Gibbs affirmed his assumption with a grunt.

"The dog's collar was much too tight, most likely the first collar it was given as a young pup. It was also malnourished, starved even." Gibbs could tell his friend was now thinking aloud. "So the dog was restrained, starved, and abandoned. It did not die with the other animals, which tells me that whoever our culprits are, they did not care whether the dog lived or died. For months, it is unlikely the animal had any human contact that was not violent in nature. It existed in a state of purgatory, so to speak…

"Too stubborn to die, and yet unable to truly live."

Ducky sent Gibbs a pointed look.

"Does that sound like anyone we know?" the Scotsman asked, a knowing gleam in his eye.

Gibbs sighed. "I get it, Duck," he said finally. Another moment passed, and then Gibbs came to a decision. "I have to make a phone call," he told his friend simply. Before he moved away for privacy, Gibbs looked at the older man. "I got something else you can work on while you wait for Palmer to get back," he offered.

Ducky's eyes lit in anticipation. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Gibbs responded with a growl. "You can tell me why the hell my team goes nuts the second a damn dog comes into the picture."


	48. Her New Best Friend Pt 2

Hours later, Gibbs and the rest of the team had finally finished with the scene and were back at the Navy Yard. McGee delivered the evidence to Abby, and then returned to the squad room to help run over what they had so far with Gibbs and DiNozzo. They had little to go off of so far, but that didn't keep Gibbs from wanting to get to the bottom of the case as quickly as possible.

He'd made his phone call, though its nature and outcome was a mystery to the rest of the team, Ducky included. Gibbs' expression had been either carefully neutral or downright irritable the entire day, and both Agents McGee and DiNozzo knew better than to press the matter simply for their own curiosity.

Gibbs had explained why Ziva was temporarily absent, and they all knew that was all the information they were going to get.

And when the elevator dinged no less than seven hours after Ziva had left the crime scene, all three men looked up to see their last teammate come striding in.

She had a plastic shopping bag in one hand, and a leash in the other, but it wasn't until she came around the corner and into the bullpen that any of them could see the dog. Gibbs was amazed by the change a thorough cleaning had made.

It was indeed brown, as he had suspected at the scene, and its coat glistened with the tell tale sheen of the newly washed. The blood had been washed from its cheeks, and its neck was wrapped in sterile bandages, the chain removed. The leash in Ziva's hand was a new one, and was attached to a chest harness that had replaced the cruel chain that had been removed from its neck.

The dog was more subdued than it had been at the scene, though still a little anxious at all the new sights and smells that filled the squad bay, but it was obvious that it had lost none of its affection for its new guardian. Wide brown eyes watched Ziva for cues, and when she did not seem tense or agitated in the new setting, the dog seemed to relax as well.

Ziva didn't look at Gibbs as she crossed to her desk, leading the dog beside her. Gibbs felt the sting of her disinterest, but let it go.

"Must have been quite a line, huh, Zee-vah?" DiNozzo asked, his eyes glued to the sight of her with the dog.

Ziva set the brimming bag on her desk before taking up residence in her chair. The dog followed her, and sat next to her.

"Apparently, there is more animal abuse in Washington DC than a single facility can effectively handle," Ziva said, her tone hiding none of the disgust in her voice. She pulled a plastic bowl from the bag on her desk, and set it on the floor next to her desk. Next she pulled out a bottle of water, and took a quick swig of it before pouring the liquid into the dog bowl. "We had to wait three hours just to be brought back to a room, and then we had to wait another hour to be seen."

Finally, her eyes regarded Gibbs with a cool gaze. "The chain and trace evidence are already down with Abby," she told him.

He nodded.

"You know, I'm actually surprised they didn't take care of him right then and there," Tony remarked, too casually. To anyone else, _from _anyone else, the comment would have been innocuous, conversational. But Gibbs knew that the exhaustion and thick tension of all his agents put Tony at a severe risk of putting his foot in it.

Gibbs glared at the senior field agent, silently urging him to shut his mouth, but the Italian seemed too exhausted to notice. The exhaustion apparently muted his sense of self-preservation as well.

"They did take care of him," Ziva said, her own exhaustion preventing her from discerning her partner's meaning. Her hand began to stroke the top of the dog's head, which rested adoringly in her lap. "It took a while, but they cleaned him up, gave him a full physical, ran tests, and bandaged him up. They were actually quite efficient once they got around to seeing the dog."

"No, I mean," Tony continued, oblivious to the invisible daggers both McGee and Gibbs were shooting him, "most dog-fighting cases they put all the animals down. Too violent to be rehabilitated, so they put the dog out of its misery."

Ziva froze, her hand pausing in midair as it was caught mid-pet against the dog's head. Her eyes hardened, and when she shifted her attention to DiNozzo, the man finally realized his mistake.

"Ziva, I didn't mean—" His attempts to backpedal were cut off.

"Does this dog _look_ dangerous, Tony?" she asked, her voice cold as ice. DiNozzo's mouth worked soundlessly, caught in a corner he had not been able to foresee until he'd backed into it.

"No—well—"

"We do not have any evidence thus far to indicate that this dog even came close to our victim," she continued, not really hearing his response. "And if this was the kind of case we put bets on, I would put money on the fact that this dog did _not_ kill or eat our Marine, and do you want to know why?"

She didn't wait for a response, instead standing up to cross to Tony's desk. The dog trailed a few steps behind her, made nervous by her shift in mood.

"Because if this dog _was_ a mankiller, he would not be so deathly close to dying from starvation."

Both of her hands planted themselves firmly on her partner's desk, and she fixed him with an intense glare that made him lean back warily.

"And frankly, Tony, I am surprised that _you_, of all people, would make any suggestions about how this dog should be handled, even if he _did _kill a man." She tilted her head, her jaw clenched dangerously tight.

"After all, everyone knows that you killed Michael," she told him, her tone feigning simplicity. "Did anyone suggest _you_ be euthanized for it?"

A terse silence filled the bullpen, as both McGee and Gibbs ceased to breathe.

Gibbs saw guilt flash across DiNozzo's features, and he knew that Ziva saw it too. She pulled back, and it was obvious she knew she had crossed a line. Granted, both of them had crossed lines, in their exhaustion from the long tense hours spent at a gruesome crime scene.

But Ziva had gone for the jugular, and she knew it.

She pressed her lips together, and for a moment Gibbs thought she would offer an apology. But before she had a chance to do so, or not to do so, the phone on her desk began to ring.

Ziva hesitated for a moment, then smoothly turned on her heel, and stalked back to her desk to answer shrill rings.

"Agent David," she said into the phone. She listened for a moment, then nodded. "Yes," she answered simply, and then placed the receiver back in its cradle. She turned to Gibbs. "Abby needs us."

Gibbs nodded, standing and picking up his semi-fresh coffee, ready to go hear the latest update from the forensic scientist. McGee stood to follow, but froze when Ziva spoke up once more.

"I did not mean _us,_ the team," she said, her tone softer. She gave Gibbs a half-apologetic look. "I meant _us,_ me and the dog." She shrugged stiffly. "She says she needs the dog for something. I do not know what."

She gathered the leash in one hand, and clicked her tongue at the dog, who looked up at her from its position next to her chair. Slowly, stiffly, the dog stood, and then happily trotted over to her. Her hand stroked its head, and then a moment later both of them were heading towards the elevator.

But as she passed Gibbs' desk, Ziva paused, the dog trailing to a stop a few steps ahead as it ran out of leash. Gibbs waited, and met her gaze when her eyes found his. "I do not know how long it will take…"

It was a peace offering, and Gibbs knew it. She was exhausted, worn out, and obviously on edge. Not only that, but Ducky's earlier assessment seemed to be holding true—her attachment to the dog was anything but whimsy.

He nodded.

"Take your time," he said, his tone almost warm. She nodded once, relaying her understanding of the unspoken meaning behind his words.

She now had his permission to rest a while before returning to the squad room.

But still Ziva hesitated. Her brown eyes left Gibbs as she almost turned back towards Tony, her mouth already opening to voice… something. But she thought better of it before she had even turned around, and she looked back at Gibbs with a look that told him all he needed to know. She wanted to apologize, to make things right with Tony, but—her pride, and her apprehension at being dismissed by her partner, prevented her from acting on it.

And then in the next moment she as gone, disappearing towards the elevator and leading the dog alongside her. Gibbs watched them go, and could not help but notice the dog's tail wagging lazily as it walked, much more at ease than it had been at the crime scene.

Ziva was right—the dog didn't _look_ like a killer.

Still… He'd wait until the evidence proved it to be true.

---

The dog was fine in the elevator, Ziva noticed.

Actually, she observed as the dog occupied itself with sniffing every inch of the carpeted floor, the dog seemed _more_ at ease in the elevator than she was. True, she'd gotten better in elevators as the months past, but even now she could feel her heart racing in the close confines of the metal car.

But, she reasoned, the dog did not seem concerned about the possibility of the walls closing in. Why should she be?

When the elevator doors lid open, however, the situation immediately changed.

The pulsing music from Abby's lab was familiar, almost comforting to Ziva, but the dog obviously had a different opinion. The dog got as far as two feet from the elevator before its tail disappeared between its legs, and its ears went back as it tried to make itself as small as possible while pulling against its harness, trying to return to the elevator.

After a few gentle but ineffective tugs on the leash, Ziva knew that it would be no use to try and drag the dog behind her. When the pitiful whining started, she instantly came to a decision.

Spooling the leash out behind her, so that she did not have to relinquish possession of it as she approached Abby's lab, she stuck her head through the open door of the lab. It did not take long for her to spot the familiar form of Abby Sciuto, who stood at her computer.

"Abby!" she called, trying to catch the scientist's attention over the music, but failing miserably. "ABBY!"

This time, the Goth spun around, only to let out a delighted squeal when she saw Ziva.

"Ziva! You're here! Come in, let me see the puppy!" she prompted, tottering over to the door on her platform heels. She paused when Ziva held up a hand.

"ABBY, THE MUSIC!" Ziva shouted to be heard. "IT IS TOO… loud." The music turned off abruptly mid-sentence, allowing Ziva's voice to return to its normal volume. "Thank you. It was frightening the dog," she explained.

Abby's face creased into a huge grin. "Where is he? Can I see him? Is he out in the hallway?" She started to move towards the door again, but froze when Ziva waved her away.

"Allow me to try to calm him a little," she requested. "It would be unwise to introduce someone new while he is on edge."

"Right, of course," Abby agreed easily, her smile not faltering a bit. "Take your time. I won't be going anywhere." She turned back to her computer, humming happily under her breath.

Ziva returned to the dog, who was still whining, though it was no longer trembling. Its ears were still back, and its tail still tucked between its legs, but when it saw Ziva it immediately crept towards her on light, hesitant paws.

She knew immediately what it was looking for, and she found absolutely no hesitation in giving it the comfort it needed.

Her hands immediately began to stroke the dog's fur, and it pressed heavily against as she did so. She began to murmur in Hebrew, and the soft melody of her native tongue relaxed it further until its tail began to wag. When it began to lick her face, she stood, a smile on her lips as she led the dog towards Abby's lab once more. This time, it gave only the slightest hesitation before following her.

Abby whirled the second the sound of the dog's nails could be heard clicking against the tile floor. Ziva bit back a grin as the Goth gasped, covering her mouth with her hands for a moment before melting into an affectionate coo.

"Ziva! Oh my gosh, he's adorable! You didn't tell me he was so cute!" Abby swept towards the dog, reaching out to pet it. "You are just the sweetest thing, aren't you—"

Abby froze when Ziva's hand suddenly darted out, capturing her wrist before her hand could reach the dog's head. She was just about to voice a protest when Ziva's firm but hushed voice cut her off.

"Don't move," Ziva voiced carefully, her eyes glued to the dog. Abby's gaze drifted back to the animal, and this time saw how the dog's hackles had raised between its shoulder blades, and how its entire body had stiffened. But perhaps what startled her most was the low rumbling that sounded from deep within its throat, a warning growl that set the little hairs on the back of her neck on end.

She obeyed Ziva's command without a second thought.

"Abby," the younger woman continued, her voice low, "when I let go of you I want you to take five steps back, and then straighten and turn back to your computer."

"Okay," the Goth whispered back.

Another tense moment passed, and then Ziva's fingers uncurled from around the pale wrist. Abby dutifully took five steps back, then turned to face her computer. She pretended to occupy herself on it, but instead focused her ears to what was happening behind her.

She heard a few soft whines, interspersed with more growling, which told the scientist that the dog had felt threatened by something about her. Ziva's voice spoke softly to the dog, though her words were not in English. And then, a few moments later, the tell-tale sound of a tongue lapping loudly between flapping cheeks could be heard, and Abby knew that her friend was being bestowed with a few sloppy kisses.

"What do you think set him off?" she asked over her shoulder, not turning around.

There was a pause as Ziva considered the question. "It is not because you are a stranger," she observed aloud. "At the SPCA, he was wary of the unfamiliar people, but did not react aggressively." There was another moment of silence as Ziva thought some more. "I believe it is your style of dress."

This made Abby's brows shoot sky high.

"You think he's the K-9 unit of the fashion police?"

"No," Ziva said slowly, though Abby could hear the smile in her voice. "I think your spiked wristbands and collar acted as some kind of trigger. It is possible the dogs who fought in the ring wore spiked collars as well."

Abby paused.

"Oh. Well, I suppose that makes perfect sense." She immediately began to remove jewelry in question, abandoning both wristbands and the collar on the metal ledge next to her computer. "Can I try saying hello again?" she asked.

"If you come slowly," Ziva acquiesced. "Make no sudden movements, and allow him the chance to get to know your scent."

Abby obeyed once more, and while the dog was cautiously sniffing her offered hand, Abby looked to where Ziva was crouching next to it.

"What were you saying to the dog, to calm him down? It was in another language."

Ziva smiled. "Hebrew. It sounds softer to me, and more likely to soothe someone." She shrugged. "And I merely informed the dog that he wanted to have you as a friend, especially since he had not been cleared of wrongdoing. The last time a dog had been accused of killing someone, it was you who cleared the dog's name."

"And he listened to you!" Abby exclaimed softly, remembering to not startle the dog. "That is so adorable!"

Ziva arched an eyebrow. "He is a dog, Abby," she informed her friend. "It would not matter what I told him, or which language I said it in. It is the tone of voice and body language that calms the dog, not the words."

Abby smirked smugly. "That's what you think. I believe otherwise, and the fact this dog trusts you so much is proof enough."

"I gave him food when he was starving," came the counter. "Of course he likes me."

"Uh huh, keep talking," Abby returned. "Not believing you."

"Gibbs was there, he saw me feed it—"

"Not what I meant," Abby interrupted. "But never mind, it doesn't matter." She grinned when the dog finally licked her hand. "How old is he?"

"The SPCA said he was most likely around 6 months old. Still a puppy, really."

"Oh yeah, look at those ginormous paws!" Abby giggled. "Definitely still growing. I bet he doubles in size before he's fully matured." The scientist looked up when no response was forthcoming, and found Ziva tiredly fighting off a deep yawn that looked ready to split her jaw wide open. "Ziva," she said softly. "How much sleep did you get last night?"

"I have been up since 0400."

"That's when the callout was. That didn't answer my question."

This time, Ziva gave no answer at all.

"All right, that's it young lady," she said sternly, slowly standing to put her hands on her hips. Ziva looked up at her with a slightly dazed look in her eyes. Abby pointed towards her office. "You get your butt in there and pull out the futon. I do not want to see you out here for three hours at least."

Ziva's brow arched. "The dog—"

"Can go with you," Abby finished for her. "Looks like he could stand a good nap too." She smirked. "You leave Gibbs to me."

Ziva opened her mouth to protest, but then blinked tiredly in concession. She stood, and with a soft click of her tongue, led the dog to the office. Abby watched with a keen eye as Ziva pulled out the poufy futon and settled herself down on it. She had to fight off a grin when the dog first seemed uncertain of what to do with itself, but then finally settled half-next to, half-on top of Ziva's now pronate form.

When Ziva's eyes closed a moment later, succumbing to her exhaustion, Abby turned back to her computer.

She had a lot of evidence to run, after all.

---

Three hours later, Gibbs went looking for Ziva. She had yet to return to the squad room, but Abby had not called again to find out where she had gone, which told him that both agent and dog had reached the lab.

The second he entered the lab, the lack of music in the room made his footfalls seem thunderous.

"Gibbs!" Abby whispered, her hushed voice abnormally loud in the unusually silent lab. "Gibbs, you're here! I was just going to call you!"

"Why are you whispering, Abs?" Gibbs asked at his normal volume.

She hushed him hurriedly. "Because Ziva and the baby are sleeping!"

Gibbs' brow arched. "_What_ baby?"

"The dog, Gibbs! They're in my office—"

Abby's voice stopped abruptly when Gibbs immediately turned and began to make his way towards the room in question. But before he got close enough for the pneumatic doors to slide open automatically, Abby forcibly pushed her way in front of him, halting him in his tracks.

"Ohnonono," she whispered quickly. "You are not going to wake them up. They're both exhausted." She glared at him. "You can make do with Timmy and Tony for a few more hours."

Gibbs shifted his weight in irritation, and glared when Abby protectively mirrored the movement.

"The dog could be dangerous, Abs. She should know better than to let her guard down around it."

Abby's face split into a triumphant grin. "Actually, she does know better. She knew better than any of us. The dog _was_ a victim. And I can prove it."

Gibbs sighed. "Talk to me."

"Okay," Abby started, launching directly into her customary reporting mode. "I talked to Ducky and he says that Corporal Niven's time of death was difficult to determine. I'm still running tests to find out if the flesh was still living or only freshly dead when the dogs got to it, but Ducky is certain that the remains were in the elements for the last twenty four to thirty-six hours. And from that, I was able to determine that _if_ Ziva's dog was one of the ones that gnawed on our vic, he would still be getting rid of whatever his stomach couldn't handle. Which, based on what the SPCA said, that would have been almost all of it."

"Getting rid of it?"

"Yeah. You know… going number two, doing his doggie doodie duty… though, come to think of it, if he's this malnourished, he'd be vomiting as well. Ziva mentioned on the phone that the SPCA had given her a special kind of formula for him to eat until his gastric systems gets a bit stronger."

"You better have some better than a lack of dog scat to back up your theory, Abs."

"Of course I do!" Abby declared, hushed voice laden with faux-offense. "The SPCA took a swab of the dog's teeth, at my request, and the only trace of meat I found was beef jerky!"

Gibbs remained silent.

"No human tissue, Gibbs! If Ziva's dog had eaten the Corporal, there would still be blood and flesh in his teeth. There'd be blood on his fur too, I think."

"There _was_ blood on its fur."

"Ah hah!" Abby exclaimed triumphantly, still in a whisper. "_That_ blood was his own!"

"His own?"

"Yup!" she affirmed. "Some dogs, when under long-term stress, develop ways to help relieve that stress. Kinda like how people tap their toes, or their fingers, or bite their nails—I used to bite my nails, but that was way back when I was a kid. I stopped when my mom—"

"Abs—"

"Right. Dog. Dogs develop nervous habits. The most common is chewing. Furniture, clothes, shoes, sticks… If they can't chew on anything else, sometimes they'll chew themselves." Abby grinned. "That blood on the dog was his own because he had gnawed himself raw."

Gibbs looked at her, taking a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

"And," she continued in the silence, "as soon as ducky releases the remains to me, I can prove that none of the teeth marks on the bones do _not_ match Ziva's dog."

Finally, Gibbs sighed, though he still said nothing.

"Now do you believe the dog is innocent?" she asked pointedly.

"Yeah, Abs," he finally relented. "I do."

Abby grinned triumphantly. "Good," she said, "'cause if not, I was going to have to use my trump card." She moved towards him, linking her arm in his and forcing him to follow her.

"Trump card?"

"Mmhmm," she hummed happily. She led him towards the office, and to his surprise, the doors did not automatically slide open when they got within range. She'd turned off the sensor, no doubt to prevent a hapless visitor from triggering the doors and waking Ziva. They came to a stop a few inches from the glass.

"Because there is no way you could see _that_ and still think the dog is a killer."

Gibbs gazed through the glass to where Abby's pale finger was pointing. And sure enough, the sight he found within the office melted his heart.

Ziva was lying on the futon, her legs slightly bent as she lay half on her side. Her eyes were closed, and her body was completely relaxed in sleep. He was surprised—he'd half expected her to simply be sitting idle in the office, getting some time to herself in order to regain her self-control, after she had nearly lost it completely in the squad bay.

But she was asleep. Honest to god asleep.

And Gibbs knew that her chest was rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. Or at least it would be, were it not for the dog draped over her.

The pup's spindly legs were splayed on the futon, but its head rested on its front paws, which rested along Ziva's sternum. Gibbs could see its cheeks puff out slightly with each breath it took, and with its eyes closed and ears drooping, there was absolutely no way the dog coul be considered a menace.

Damn it.

But then, Gibbs' eyes saw Ziva twitch.

He knew that twitch. He knew that momentary grimace that twisted her features in her sleep. She was on the verge of a night terror. A violent one. She was on the verge of a violent night terror with a possibly unstable dog pinning her to the cushion.

Fear and concern flooded his system, and his hand instantly shot out to manually open the doors, but Abby was waiting for just that reaction. Slim fingers caught his wrist before he would open the door, and pulled it back.

"Abby—" he growled in warning. She cut him off.

"Shhh," she whispered. "Just watch. Trust me."

Gibbs considered ignoring her, to act on his instinct to rush to Ziva's aid. But in the end he relented, allowing himself to trust the Goth. But he remained on edge, ready to spring into action if necessary.

His eyes drifted back to the unlikely duo on the futon, and he watched as Ziva's distress grew, her limbs continuing to twitch in increasing frequency.

"Watch watch watch watch," Abby whispered excitedly.

Gibbs obeyed, unable to do anything else, and before their eyes, one particularly strong spasm of Ziva's shoulders woke the dog. Gibbs instantly tensed as wet brown eyes opened suddenly, instantly focusing on Ziva's sleeping visage. But to his surprise, the dog didn't rise. It didn't growl or bare its teeth in warning. It simply lifted its head from its paws, and inched its nose forward carefully.

Then, ever so carefully, a long pink tongue darted out, and began to lap gently at the underside of Ziva's chin. It looked almost absurd, from where he stood, but all Gibbs could notice was how tender the interaction was.

And, possibly even more surprising, Ziva responded just as gently. The growing tension in her frame disappeared, and she relaxed once more. Without opening her eyes, her hand came up towards the movement at her chin, but lost steam halfway there as she sank back into a deeper sleep. It listed there, in mid-air, but before it could fall back to the futon, the dog acted.

It watched the hand come up, and when it failed to complete the trip, it nosed her palm gently, snuffling against it softly. Her hand returned to life then, following the line of its snout until it could rest completely against its big block head. And then, the big block head lowered to its paws once more, and the arm came down with it.

And then, aside from the barely-there movement of her thumb tracing circles on the dog's forehead, she was still. The dog's eyes blinked tiredly once, twice, and then the dog was fast asleep as well.

Gibbs stared, astonished by what he'd just bore witness to. Beside him, Abby sighed contentedly.

"You wouldn't have believed me if I had just told you," she remarked, a smirk audible in her voice.

"She didn't even wake up," he muttered. She'd come halfway, true, but Gibbs doubted she would even remember waking that much in a few hours.

"Now how could you possibly deny that the dog is anything other than a complete sweetie pie?"

Gibbs sighed.

"I get it, Abs."

"Do you?" She returned quickly, her voice suddenly stern. "Do you really? Because ten minutes ago you were ready to cart that dog off to be put down, screw the consequences! And you were ready to do that because I don't think you fully understand what's happening here."

She pulled him away from the office and Gibbs knew it was because she had no intentions of holding anything back from him.

He mentally braced himself.

"By now," she continued animatedly, "I'm sure you've realized that the dog has bonded with Ziva. It trusts her, and Ziva has taken full responsibility for that trust."

"I know that, Abby."

"Like I said. You've realized that much. But what I don't think you've comprehended is that Ziva is trusting the _dog_."

Gibbs froze, Abby's revelation washing over him like a wave. But she continued without giving him a chance to say anything.

"You saw them in there, Gibbs. They're symbiotic, and you just don't separate symbiotic partners. And if you'd been anything else than your thorough self, and had let that dog get sent to the sausage factory, it would've broken that girl's heart."

Her green eyes darkened sorrowfully at the thought.

"And she would've gotten over it, because it's just a dog. But she never would have forgotten you, because it's not _just_ a dog."

Abby stared at him, and he pressed his lips together.

"That dog is just like her, Gibbs," she continued softly, "and you were ready to throw it away. You wouldn't have fought for it, and that tells her that you don't think it's worth trying to save. A dog so similar to Ziva wasn't worth trying to save.

"How do you think she felt when she saw how willing you were to throw it away?"

For a few moments, Gibbs was rendered speechless. He wasn't going to let her go any time soon. Just thinking about a future without her made his heart ache. She didn't think he was going to let her go, did she?

"I'm not letting her go, Abs. Not in a million years."

"I know that, Gibbs. And you know that. And I'm pretty sure Ziva does too. But if a dog just like her isn't worth the effort to care about… That's going to shake her up a bit."

Her voice softened then.

"Gibbs, do you remember the year that girl went missing in the woods, and you missed my birthday dinner because you were searching all night?"

"Yeah, Abs. I remember."

"Well, this is a lot like that. I mean, I knew you still loved me, I knew you had a good reason for missing dinner. But I was still hurt, and I still questioned why you suddenly seemed to not care, and why I wasn't worth a phone call explaining why you had missed the tradition. I was left wondering until the next day, when you left that present on my desk."

She gave him a reassuring smile.

"Right now Ziva's in the wondering stage. You just gotta make sure you leave her an awesome present to remind her just how much you don't _not_ care."

A moment of silence passed between them, and the two looked at each other intently, one with an indecipherable expression, the other with enough faith, hope, and optimism for the both of them.

Finally, Gibbs half-smiled, and he stepped closer to her to press a kiss to her rosy cheek.

"Thanks, Abs."

And with that, he turned and moved to leave. He was halfway to the door when Abby's soft call halted him once more.

"Her apartment building allows dogs," she blurted out nervously. When he turned to look at her, she grinned sheepishly. "I called to check the second I saw them two sleeping."

Gibbs gave another smirk.

"I know," he stated simply.

"You do?" she returned. "Well, of course you do, you're Gibbs, but… You do?"

"Yup. Just like I know her shrink thinks a family pet is a great idea." He smirked at her wide-eyed stare. He shrugged as he turned to leave.

"I called to check after I saw them two say hello."


	49. Her New Best Friend Pt 3

Ziva awoke to something rumbling on top of her.

A warm weight pressed down on her from above, but, even though alarm flashed through her at her suddenly discovered predicament, she could recognize that the form lying on her was not human. Not a man.

Not a nightmare.

As she woke further, she could feel rough and smooth pads resting against the skin of her chest, and the elbows digging into her ribs. And then she registered the soft fur her fingers were already subconsciously stroking.

She opened her eyes, and was instantly greeted by a wet black nose and a wrinkled brown face. She almost grinned when she saw the tip of a pink tongue sticking out between the dog's teeth, and then had to fight back a laugh when she realized the rumbling that was tickling her ribs was the sound of the dog snoring.

Instead she opted to stroke the dog's shoulder gently, and with a start it woke. The rumbling stopped and amber eyes opened as his head lifted. She shifted underneath it, and it rose to its feet, allowing her room to move. She took advantage of the extra space to sit up and arch her back. Several kinks popped loudly in protest, but when she rubbed the sleep from her eyes she realized that she felt more energized than she had in days.

The dog nosed her neck, chuffing softly as her hair tickled his nose. She responded by giving his ears a good rub, but then got to her feet, gathering the dog's leash in her hand. The dog pranced around her feet excitedly, whining in anticipation as it bodily jostled her legs. Her attention, however, was captured by the lack of sunlight pouring through the office windows.

It was night.

With purposeful strides, Ziva strode to the glass doors, only to stop short when they failed to open automatically. Mild panic washed through her when she realized she was trapped, but then she realized that Abby must have simply turned off the sensors. She pressed the button for manual release, and sure enough the doors slid open with a whoosh.

She passed through them quickly, the dog at her heels.

Abby heard the doors open and immediately moved to greet her two guests. Ziva noticed that she had yet to put her spikes back on.

"Hey!" Abby greeted brightly. "How are you feeling?" She wrapped Ziva in a hug, who received it stiffly.

"Abby, how long was I asleep?"

Abby pulled back, but didn't seem offended by the lack of reciprocation. "Five hours—"

"Five hours!" Ziva's voice was hushed, but her shock was still clearly audible. "Abby, you should have woken me. Gibbs will—"

"Gibbs knew where you were, and he had no problem with it. He sent the boys home a couple hours ago."

"Correction," a new voice said. "He gave us permission to leave. Doesn't mean we all left."

Both women turned to face the new visitor, and found Tony striding into the lab with an evidence bag in one hand. Ziva's eyes met his for a split second, and then both of them looked away in shame. Tony focused on the Goth, whose own eyes absorbed every nuance of the interaction with a silent, but keen eye.

"Ducky found some trace evidence among the remains," he said brightly, not belying any of his apprehension. "Asked me to run this down to you."

"Excellent!" Abby exclaimed, taking possession of the bag and signing the log printed on the front of it. "I just had my third Caf-Pow of the afternoon. I'm gonna be up all night! More evidence means less boredom, which in my book is definitely a plus—"

"Glad I could help," Tony interrupted good-naturedly, knowing that if given free rein, the Goth could continue for hours. "Always willing to help out the beautiful women of the world," he declared with a wink. His gaze shifted to Ziva, though it remained guarded, reserved.

She hated that reservation in his eyes. It was a reservation that was only ever there when things were tense between them, when secrets were being kept. It had been there during his undercover mission with Jeanne Benoit, and it had been there when he had begun to sneak around about Michael.

Michael.

Why did she have to bring him up earlier? Even dead, he was still a point of contention between them. She should have had better sense.

"Gibbs is still around," he told her civilly. "I think he's waiting to go over what needs to happen with the dog. The SPCA hasn't faxed over the official report yet, so there may be some legal mumbo jumbo that needs to be accounted for."

Ziva glanced at the canine in question, and found that it was busy sniffing Tony's Italian leather shoes in curiosity. Finally she nodded.

"I need to give him an update anyway," she offered. She looked to Abby. "Thank you for the use of your office."

"No problem!" the Goth responded happily. "It's always open for you, and the little cutie pie too."

Ziva offered a smile in return, and then turned to lead the dog out of the lab and back towards the elevator. Tony trailed behind them, but hesitated before joining them in the elevator. Giving her partner a pointed look, Ziva smoothly stepped to one side, giving him ample room to stand beside her.

He accepted the silent olive branch, and quietly stood next to her as the doors slid closed. He pressed the button that would take them to the squad room, but as soon as the car passed the threshold between floors, he reached out and flipped the emergency switch.

The car jolted to a stop, and the light around them dimmed. Ziva was instantly on edge, but retained enough presence of mind to give herself a mental head slap.

When would she learn to stay on the side of the elevator closest to the controls?

The dog was also uneasy at the sudden change, but it merely pressed itself against her legs, shaking with anxiety.

"Ziva—" Whatever Tony wanted to say was cut off almost immediately.

"Start the elevator." Ziva's voice was terse, but Tony didn't let that deter him.

"I want to talk to—"

"As do I," she agreed curtly. "But not here." She looked up at him. "Start the elevator," she reiterated.

He met her gaze for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching. Finally, he seemed to find whatever he was looking for, and he nodded once. Without asking any other questions, for which Ziva was grateful, he flipped the car back into motion. But in the same motion, he pressed the button for the next available floor, and the doors almost immediately slid open to reveal a dim, vacant hallway.

Interpreting his intentions, Ziva led the way out of the elevator, the dog following behind. Tony followed as well, and then a moment later the three of them were alone in the long, empty hall.

"Look, Ziva," Tony said, wasting no time in launching into what he needed to say, "I didn't mean what I said earlier. I didn't mean that I thought the dog _should_ be euthanized. I was just thinking, and then it was coming outta my mouth. Too much Animals Cops over the weekend, I guess—"

"Tony," Ziva interrupted. He instantly fell silent, almost grateful for the reprieve. "I am the one who should be apologizing. I should not have brought up Michael. I should not have thrown his death in your face."

"I don't really blame you for mentioning it," he said, his tone serious. "I mean, it certainly wasn't enjoyable, but… I don't blame you."

"And I do not blame you for his death," she continued. "I meant to leave all of that behind, when I became a special agent. It is not something to use to keep you in line." Her eyes drifted downwards, and settled on the dog. "I think we were both tired, and on edge, and…" Her voice petered off.

"Hey."

A warm hand came up to cup her bicep, gently catching her attention. She lifted her gaze, and found the features looking back at her filled with nothing but kindness and understanding. He smirked sheepishly.

"Call it a wash?" he offered.

Ziva's brow furrowed. "Something needs washing?"

"Ah, no," Tony answered, this time with a full-blown grin. "I meant, let's just pretend it didn't happen. You're right. We were both exhausted, with minimal control of our mouths, and neither of us meant what we said. No harm, no foul." He smirked. "And most importantly, no apologies necessary."

He straightened dramatically, and then offered her his hand.

"Deal?"

Ziva looked at his hand for a moment, and then smiled, grasping his hand firmly.

"Deal."

They shook solemnly, sealing the deal. And then the moment was broken, and Tony's features creased back into a broad grin as he crouched down to pet the dog that was sniffing the leg of his pants.

"So this is the mongrel that has big bad Ziva David wrapped around his finger, huh?"

He stopped suddenly.

"He doesn't have fingers. Paw? Wrapped around his tail, maybe… But that sounds dirty—"

"Tony…" The warning in her voice did not go unnoticed by the senior field agent.

"Never mind," he amended quickly, rubbing the dog's ears. "So, you thought of a name yet?" He looked up at her expectantly.

"A name for what?"

"The dog."

Her brow furrowed. "Why would I name the dog?"

"Well, aren't you gonna keep it? I mean, you seem pretty attached to him, and it's obvious that this guy is head over heels for you…" He leaned down to whisper dramatically in the dog's ear. "_You better be careful, kid. This one's a heartbreaker._"

Ziva ignored the dig. It wasn't hard—she barely heard it.

Keep the dog?

The idea hadn't even crossed her mind. But now that it had…

Was she even _allowed_ to keep the dog? It was evidence now, so it had to remain in her custody until it was no longer needed. But what about when the case was over? Would a conflict of interest be a problem? If an arrest was made, would her objectivity be called into question?

Did she _care_ that her objectivity could be questioned?

Tony didn't seem to notice her internal quandary.

"Well, Gibbs is probably ready to send some heads rolling," he declared with a huff as he rose to his full height. "You ready?" he asked.

Ziva didn't respond, but she did follow him into the elevator as soon as the doors opened. She watched the dog enter behind them, her mind awash with what-ifs and what-could-bes. The trip up to the squad room was momentary, and when they made their way back to their respective desks, Ziva noticed no one else was around. The bull pen was dark, save for the individual desk lamps that still glowed in the MCRT section.

It was quickly evident that Gibbs was not so eager to see her as Tony had insinuated. The team leader was nowhere to be seen in the darkened squad room, his desk empty and computers sleeping. By all appearances, he had already gone home for the night. But Gibbs didn't leave before his agents did—that was common knowledge in the agency.

Where was he?

"He probably went for another coffee run," Tony guessed, not at all unsettled by the lack of team leader in the room. "Probably went even farther than usual, since the nearest place isn't open this late."

Ziva _hmm_ed in acknowledgement, but settled wordlessly at her desk. By this point, the water bowl was empty, possibly made so by the cleaning crew. But Ziva took advantage of the empty bowl while she could.

She pulled out a packet of the special milk formula she had been given at the SPCA, and poured the powder into a fresh bottle of water. She shook it vigorously until the powder had mixed the water, turning the liquid into a thick white mixture that was that then poured into the waiting bowl.

The dog didn't know what to do with it at first—he sniffed it in curiosity, but didn't think to drink it until Ziva dipped her fingers in it. She offered her dripping fingers to the dog for investigation, and it finally lapped the drops from her skin. A gentle prompting later, and the dog finally got to work at the offered nutrition.

Ziva watched it drink for a moment, but then turned away to occupy herself with typing up the reports that always seemed to be waiting for her. A glance up at Tony told her he was doing the same—she knew he was not occupying himself with less productive distractions because his expression was the picture of focus. His lips were without a smile, but his eyes darted across his computer screen with an intense alertness that reminded her that he was not _always_ joking and poking fun.

The dog had finished his meal by the time the elevator dinged a half hour later, and both agents looked up to see Gibbs striding towards them, a coffee cup in hand. He moved towards his desk without pausing, and Ziva could tell from the aroma that followed him that the coffee was indeed fresh—it seemed Tony had been correct in his predictions.

"Abby's got the evidence, boss," Tony updated him without standing. "She's working on it now, and will probably continue to do so for many hours to come." Gibbs pegged him with a sharp glare. "She had way too many Caf-Pows today, boss."

"Fine," Gibbs answered bluntly. "Go home."

The dismissal came quick and heavy, leaving no room for debate. Tony heard the order and did not challenge it.

"Right, boss." He stood and gathered his things, shooting a look towards Ziva. "See yah tomorrow," he added with a wink, and then disappeared in the direction of the elevator.

Ziva waited until she heard the elevator doors close behind him before she turned to Gibbs. Her lips parted to offer her report of events, but before she could utter a sound a deeper voice spoke first.

"Ziver," Gibbs said, leaning over his desk as he looked at something that had popped up on his recently woken monitor.

Her lips closed, waiting expectantly for him to continue.

"Go home. Get some rest."

Ziva opened her mouth to protest, to point out the fact that she had just woken from a five hour nap, but the sound of his voice made her think better of it. His tone had softened since he'd spoken to Tony, but his gaze never left his computer screen, leaving her feeling as though she were child being sent to bed without dinner.

So instead she remained silent, and put the now-empty dog bowl in the plastic shopping bag that still rested on her desk. Slinging her go-bag over her shoulder, she gathered the shopping bag and the dog's leash.

And then, with one last look at Gibbs…

She left.


	50. Her New Best Friend Pt 4

The drive to her apartment was uneventful.

She'd been temporarily concerned about not being able to secure the dog properly in the car, but when it had simply climbed into the backseat and stretched out on the long bench, her qualms disappeared. She did control the vehicle less haphazardly than she usually did, both to keep the dog from sliding around on the seat and to not give it any reason to become unnecessarily agitated.

She was certain, however, that once the dog recovered more, it would be more than happy to sit up front with her, even when she drove like maniac.

Once the dog recovered? So now she was looking to the future. She'd gotten used to the concept of a future during her time spent as a Liaison officer, once she'd sunk into the American mentality of having all the time in the world. But to think of a future with a dog… it was laughable.

Or at least it would be, were it not for the fact that Tony's earlier words were echoing in her head. She considered how quick she'd been to defend the dog—a _dog_!—even before she'd established a trust by feeding it. She'd taken one look at that yard, and at the chain around the dog's throat, and it suddenly hadn't mattered that the dog was ready attack the cop that had gotten too close.

Her fingers turned white against the steering wheel as her grip on it tightened. She hadn't given any thought as to what would happen to the dog after the case was solved, but the more she thought about it now, there was no other way it could play out. Tony, a goof he may seem, had seen what she herself had not.

She would not be relinquishing possession of the dog.

Damn. Tony had been right about something else too. She needed to find a name.

The nap in Abby's office seemed to have done the dog a great deal of good, for as soon as she opened the car door when they reached her apartment building, it nearly bowled her over in his excitement to start investigating every single blade of grass within reach of his nose. It returned to her periodically as she gathered their things from the trunk, as if checking in on her, but always dashed away the second it was assured she was still there.

She allowed it a few minutes to romp in the shadows, smiling as she watched its typical puppy-like wonder at the new world around him. It seemed carefree, despite the life they had rescued it from only hours before. It was as if it couldn't even remember life from before.

Suddenly, she was jealous of the puppy on the leash.

Finally, she clicked her tongue at the dog and led the way into the building. The lobby was blessedly empty, and there was no one to encounter as they walked to the stairwell. The dog was able to climb the stairs almost as easily as she—its inability to properly run and play in that muddy yard at the crime scene had left its legs weaker than they should have been at its age. But the SPCA had said the condition would correct itself over time, as long as the dog was able to exercise in the future.

Opening her apartment door to find the space behind it dark and waiting was not as comforting as it usually was. She closed the door behind her, and removed the harness from the dog's chest, allowing it to dash off and examine its new home.

Home.

She sighed—she really was serious about this, wasn't she?

She made a mental note to punish Tony for his sudden ability to plant little seeds of thought into her mind as she set her go-bag by the key table. She crossed to put the plastic grocery on the nearest kitchen counter, but then froze when she saw a patch of white in the shadows, resting on the cold marble of the counter.

A patch of white that hadn't been there when she'd left that morning.

The bag was instantly dropped and her weapon drawn from its holster, every nerve in her body instantly on alert. The dog came running when it heard the bag hit the floor, but she knew that it had had time to investigate the rest of the apartment. If it had encountered another presence, odds were that it would have reacted defensively. But its hackles only stood on edge when it saw her tense posture and drawn weapon.

If she believed the dog, she was the only human in the apartment.

She ignored it though, and did a quick sweep of the kitchen before focusing again on the square of pale color that had caught her attention.

She flipped the light switch on, and peered closer at the white square. It was a note.

The script was immediately recognizable, and though the relief it brought was welcome, it did not abate the irritation that filled her. Gibbs had left the note. He had been in her apartment.

It was not necessarily _wrong_, since she had given him a key to the place with no reservations, but would it have killed him to mention he had been here when he dismissed her at the office? She brushed the thought aside as she read the note.

_You can put your gun away. Stopped by to deliver some stuff. Be there in ten. – J_

The man was insufferable.

She set the note aside, and took the next few moments to turn on the rest of the lights in the apartment. As she did so, she found additional evidence of Jethro's visit.

The kitchen had two metal dog bowls, complete with a drip mat to protect her wooden floor from wayward water spills. The living room now had a plethora of plushy dog toys in one corner, at least one of which squeaked, as demonstrated when she accidently stepped on it. A dog bed rested next to the couch, large enough for the dog to grow into it.

On a hunch, she checked the pantry, and found a forty pound bag of dry dog kibble. There was another note attached to the bag.

_For when he's ready,_ it said.

Ziva smiled then, even as the dog came up behind her and carefully nosed the bag of food. It must have liked what it smelled, because a moment later its paw came up to scratch at the bag.

"Hey," she said gruffly, "enough of that." Amber eyes looked up at her woefully. "Do not give me that look. You cannot eat it anyway."

The dog whined, but backed out of the pantry when she moved to close the door. They went back to the living room, and Ziva plopped herself down on the couch. The dog sat at her feet, its eyes staring at her beseechingly.

"What?" she asked it. It whined gently, and then rested its head on her knee. When she merely stared back, it pulled away and put its paw on her leg. Its head cocked to the side, and another pitiful whine broke the silence.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but grin at the blatant display of begging.

"Fine," she said, patting the cushion next to her. "But you have to get up here yourself. I am not pulling you up." The warning fell on deaf ears as the dog immediately jumped up onto the couch next to her, and wasted no time in curling up half in her lap. It found her hand, and began to drench it in slobbery kisses.

"You are incorrigible," she told it with a chuckle, using her free hand to trace the strip of fur along its spine that grew in the opposite direction of the rest of its fur. She paused. "Huh. You know, you are very much like someone else I know. He can be very ferocious when he needs to, but other times, he is a big marshmallow."

"That big marshmallow better not be me," a deep voice said suddenly from behind them.

Ziva instantly tensed, but the instant recognition of the voice kept her from swinging her handgun towards the unexpected intruder. The dog, though, had no such recognition. It was immediately on its feet, and dashed over her legs to jump off the couch and sprint towards Gibbs.

When it was a few feet away it skidded to a halt, and began to growl more fiercely than she had ever heard it growl before. The sound sent chills down Ziva's spine as she shot to her feet after the dog. She looked to where Gibbs stood, and found that he had frozen, but did not seem afraid of the dog. He simply glared at it, blue eyes flashing dangerously.

A tense standoff ensued, as neither man nor dog backed down.

When the dog failed to make any move to attack him, Gibbs decided to press his luck. He took one step forward, and lifted his eyes to Ziva.

"Ziver—"

Whatever he intended to say was drowned out when the dog lunged at him, its growling turning to a series of feral snarls. White teeth flashed, and then sank into the sleeve of Gibbs' jacket. Alarm flashed through Ziva, and surged forward as well, ready to intercede before Gibbs decided to shoot the dog after all.

But to her surprise, Gibbs remained still as stone. He didn't even so much as blink, even when teeth came dangerously close to his skin. He stared at the dog, watching for any further sign of attack, but the dog simply maintained its death grip on his sleeve, continuing to growl as ferociously as it could manage. Ziva approached slowly, so as not to spook the dog further, and made sure to not come up behind it. Instead she skirted the periphery of its vision, and began speaking softly in Hebrew, her voice low and soothing.

When she was within reach, her hand traced its way down Gibbs' arm, drifting closer to the dog's snout. Just before her skin hit black nose, she paused, allowing the dog to recognize her scent. After a few moments the growling stopped, though the teeth refused to relinquish their hold.

Continuing to murmur, Ziva gently let her fingers travel under the dog's chin, stroking its throat with calming pressure. She knew it was a risk, but she could feel the adrenaline running through her system, and she hoped that her reflexes would be enough to evade any snaps the dog might take at her.

But her reflexes were proven unnecessary when the dog shifted its attention to her, and finally released Gibbs' sleeve. A careful whine reached her ears, and she felt a warm tongue lick her fingers. Carefully, Ziva bodily led the dog away from Gibbs, keeping herself between the animal and the man.

Once a safe distance away, she pulled them both to a stop. Pressing lightly on the dogs back hips, she prompted it to sit. It obeyed, though immediately stood again when she straightened.

"_Lo_," she told it firmly. She pressed on its hips again, and it sat once more. "_Shev_," she commanded, giving the Hebrew word for sit. She waited a moment, and when the dog didn't move, she stood. The dog moved to follow, getting to its feet. Its ears were down, its tail tucked—the picture of cowed remorse.

"_Lo_," she repeated. She returned to the dog, and repeated the sequence of events once more. It took several more tries, but she remained patient. To his credit, Gibbs let her work, remaining exactly where he was so as not to draw the dog's attention away from her.

Finally, the dog seemed to grasp the concept of the intended lesson, and remained seated when Ziva straightened. It watched her with eager eyes as she pulled away, and gave a short whine of displeasure, but stayed where it was as she turned back to Gibbs.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded, careful to keep her voice low. Gibbs merely arched an eyebrow at her. "You sneak up on me _and_ a dog that not twelve hours ago was chained in a yard used as a dog fighting pit? Have you lost your mind?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Dog should know better than to let its guard down," he deadpanned.

Ziva choked back a scoff. "_Let its guard down?_ My God, you really have lost it."

"Ziver…" Gibbs took a step towards her, but stopped when the familiar sound of growling sounded throughout the room.

Ziva turned back to the dog, her expression serious. "_Lo. Sheket._" The growling turned to a whine.

"Huh," Gibbs remarked. "Dog learns quick."

She glared at him. "Yes. It seems that a dog has more sense than you tonight." She tilted her head slightly. "Do you realize how completely ridiculous, and ultimately _saddening_, that is?"

Gibbs looked at her, and then shifted his weight as he pressed his lips together. Ziva stared him down, and finally, he spoke.

"I'm sorry."

Ziva blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, taking a casual step forward. "For what I said at the scene." He gave a small nod of concession as he tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. "It was insensitive, and I shouldn't have said it. I was wrong."

Ziva stared at him for a moment, before her posture softened and the fight left her tone. But the bite was still there.

"Well, gee, I guess that just makes everything _all_ better, doesn't it?" she retorted.

Gibbs smirked. "Good contraction, but it's _gee_. Soft 'g'."

Her brow furrowed. "It cannot be. I know how it is spelled. It is spelled just like Mc_Gee_, and _gee_se…" She emphasized the sound in question. "I believe I am in the right of way, here."

Gibbs paused. "All good points," he said finally, "but it's still a soft 'g' and you're digging yourself in deeper with the 'right of way'—"

Ziva waved his words away with a shake of her head. "How did this get to be about correcting my English?" she asked him in frustration.

"You're right," he conceded, raising his hands in surrender. "Forget it."

He approached her slowly, not breaking eye contact. She watched him come, and though her arms remained crossed over her chest, she didn't move away.

"I didn't realize," he said slowly, his voice hushed, "how much the dog would mean to you. I should have seen it. But I didn't."

"How could you have?" Ziva returned, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly as the last of the remonstrance bled from her. "I did not even think about keeping the dog until Tony said something." She gave him a pointed look. "And given your little…'welcome home' surprise, you were more attuned to that inevitability than I was."

"So that gives me brownie points, huh?"

"You made brownies as well?" she asked, her eyes lighting up with anticipation. Gibbs winced as he readied himself to correct her, reluctant to see the resulting disappointment, but he was preempted by gentle hand on his elbow. "That one was a joke," she said softly, smoothly sidling closer to him.

He grinned. "Ah," he scoffed, "I knew that." He wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace, which she returned just as tenderly. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, causing her to tilt her head up to look at him in curiosity.

"What?"

He looked down to meet her gaze. "I guess this proves I'm the marshmallow, huh?"

There was a moment of silence, and then she made the connection. A moment later the apartment was filled with rich, robust laughter that had her leaning into him for support. Still chuckling, she looked up at him, and gave his waist an affectionate squeeze.

"Yes, it does," she affirmed. "But you are _my_ marshmallow."

Gibbs smiled, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Careful," he warned. "You're liable to get a cavity with that sweet tooth of yours."

"Oh," she scoffed in return, pushing him away in playful annoyance. "You are impossible." She rolled her eyes at him, and then turned away to find the dog staring at them attentively, its rear end still firmly planted on the hardwood. She grinned. "_Yeled tov_," she praised gently, promptly sending the dogs tail wagging against the smooth floor.

She looked over her shoulder at Gibbs, her gaze critical as she contemplated how to proceed.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked.

She paused before answering. "Go get us some drinks," she instructed finally. "I will try to get the dog settled with me on the couch."

Gibbs nodded in understanding, but waited until Ziva had the dog moving before heading off to the kitchen. He could hear soft Hebrew coming from behind him as she guided the dog towards the sofa, her words low and soothing, but firm. When he opened the refrigerator, he heard the dog jump up onto the sofa, and then lay down heavily.

Picking two bottled waters off the shelf, forgoing the juice and soda, Gibbs shut the fridge behind him and confidently strode towards the living room. As he entered, the dog growled softly again, but an unrelenting _lo_ from Ziva silenced it once more.

He saw Ziva's strategy the moment his gaze found her on the couch—she was in the middle of the sofa, with the dog half in her lap on her right. The cushion on her left was ready and waiting for him, and blatantly obvious. She'd arranged it so that the dog would have to go through her if it wanted to attack him.

The arrangement didn't thrill him, but he acknowledged that Ziva seemed to know what she was doing. And if he'd been in her shoes, he probably would have done the same thing. So he took the vacant cushion without protest, and wordlessly opened a water and passed it to her, so that she would be able to keep one hand on the dog's head.

"Thank you," she said lightly, taking a quick sip of the cool liquid.

"You're welcome," he returned easily. In a single smooth motion, his arm came up to rest around her shoulders, eliciting another growl from the dog. But it fell quiet with another word from Ziva. "You're good with him," Gibbs commented. "You thought of a name yet?"

"I haven't been able to think of much else since Tony mentioned it at the Navy Yard before we left," she replied. "I am not sure…"

"Well, what do you know about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've spent the last twelve hours with this dog. You must've noticed something about him… behavior, nervous tics, personality…"

Ziva gazed up at him, one eyebrow arched skeptically. But instead of calling him on the unusual topic of choice, she decided to answer him. "Well, he is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a little over six months, malnourished and underweight. He has worms, a weakened gastro-intestinal system, and a wound on his neck that is at high risk of infection."

She was simply listing off what had been told to her at the SPCA, Gibbs knew. It wouldn't help with choosing a name, but it was a good starting point.

"He is wary of strangers, but only becomes aggressive when confronted with something that reminds him of his former circumstances, or is provoked." She shot him a pointed glare on that one, and Gibbs had the grace to appear properly chastised. "Loud noises make him nervous, but he has no problem in confined spaces, as far as can be determined at this point."

Her gaze drifted to the head lying in her lap.

"He is smart. Very smart, and eager to please, but he is defensive of that which he considers to be his. That includes food—"

"You," Gibbs interrupted. She gave him a roll of the eyes.

"Me," she conceded, "and most likely these toys you have so kindly provided, once he gets familiar with them." She paused then, her eyes returning once more to the dog. "But even though he has a tendency for violence, he is also very sweet. And when he is not threatened, he is happy. He is so full of life. He is curious about everything, and is so easily excited by something new."

A silence settled over them when her words stopped coming. After a moment, Gibbs filled the void with words of his own.

"Happy, huh?" Her hair found its way into his fingers, and he began to fiddle with it. "Does that surprise you?"

For a moment, her only response was a soft sigh.

"Yes," she admitted finally. "He seems unaffected by what happened to him, until he feels threatened. If he isn't provoked, then it is as if none of it had ever happened. He is only concerned about investigating the next blade of grass, or the next pair of shoes he sees."

"Dogs have short memories."

"Or maybe they are simply well-adjusted," she returned. "I know that the difficulties I am having, they are not unique. I know because Damon has the same concerns, the same reservations when it comes to surviving. But should not humans be just as adept at overcoming such hardships as a dog?"

"Not all dogs are as well-adjusted as this one, Ziver," he told her. "DiNozzo was right—a lot dogs forced to live like that can't be saved. They'd rip your throat open as soon as look at you. They don't know how _not_ to be violent." He looked at the dog. "This one is young, and I don't think he was a fighter."

"Then why would they keep him? Why not just give him to a shelter? Or put him out of his misery?"

"They might have been intending to use him in training."

"Training?"

"Yeah. Some rings, they'll put house pets, or smaller animals, in the pit with the fighters, to give them a taste of the kill." Gibbs paused when he felt Ziva tense under his arm. "Hey," he said, unable to ignore his need to reassure her. "He's not as torn up as he would be if they'd actually gotten around to it. He wasn't bait—"

"No, he was just tied to a stake and left to the mercy of all the other bloodthirsty dogs in the yard," she growled. "And that is a much better way to live, yes… _So_ much better."

And now they were getting to the heart of things. Ducky was right, as had been expected. She identified with the dog. But this time, when he considered the concept, it did not immediately flood him with dread. The two of them shared some kind of rapport, and it was evident that the pup had potential. Gibbs' concern had laid in the possibility that the dog had been one of the lost, one that could not be saved.

If she'd identified with a dog that was irreparably damaged, what would that have done to her peace of mind? It might not have broken her, but it would have undone months of progress that had slowly gotten herself back to her old confidence and comfort. She would have lost that trust in herself that she had regained in the past few months, and in losing that trust she would have withdrawn into herself, and pulled away from him.

And that was a possibility that scared him out of his mind.

"Chaka."

The soft word almost passed him by, he was so caught up in his own thoughts.

"Hm?"

"Chaka," she repeated. "It means life. It is commonly a female name, but it is also the name of an African warrior who was greatly feared in his time. He was fierce, like the dog when he is threatened. But this dog is full of life as well. I think it fits."

Gibbs gave her shoulders a squeeze. "I like it," he said. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Chaka it is then."

Gibbs sent her a sidelong glance, and when he saw her tired but content features, a naggling sense of doubt churned in his gut. His hand smoothed over the hair on her head, making her eyes close in relaxation.

"Hey," he said softly. Her eyes opened, and found his gaze. "We okay?" he asked carefully.

She gave him a tired smile.

"You have put up with a lot of things for me," she replied easily. "I think you've earned the right to be a bonehead every now and then."

His brows rose. "Bonehead?"

"I learned that one from Tony. I am certain I used it correctly."

"Yeah," he scoffed light-heartedly. "You got it right. You're on your way to being a true American now."

She gave a laugh, one muted by growing exhaustion. She may have gotten a five hour nap, but Gibbs knew that did nothing to make up for days worth of little to no sleep. She was slowly beginning to relax even deeper into his one-armed hold, and he welcomed the contact. But then her head twisted against his shoulders, her gaze swinging around to meet his.

"You may deserve to be a bonehead," she told him in all seriousness, her features somewhat aloof, "but that does not mean I will not challenge you, understand? I will call you on it, just as I did this morning."

Gibbs looked at her for a long moment, then curled his arm around her neck to bring her closer to him. Placing a kiss to her temple, he gave her a smile.

"Deal."

She gave him a small peck on the cheek in return, and then settled against him. Knowing she was on the verge of falling asleep, Gibbs readied himself to get to his feet. "I should go," he muttered softly, though every fiber of his being told him to stay. Apparently, Ziva was of a similar opinion.

"No," she protested thickly, burrowing stubbornly into his side. "Stay." When he hesitated, she knew she had a foothold. "Just for a few more minutes?"

Gibbs smiled, but relaxed back onto the couch. "Few more minutes can't hurt," he conceded. Ziva happily snuggled into him in triumph, causing the dog to whine as she drew away from it ever so slightly.

"I am not going anywhere, Chaka," she muttered. "Relax." A moment of content silence followed, and after a while, Gibbs thought she had fallen asleep once more. But then, finally, Ziva spoke once more.

"Why did you provoke the dog earlier?" she asked quietly. "I know that you knew better than to move when Chaka was growling at you. But you came closer anyway. Why?"

Gibbs grinned, though he knew she couldn't see it. He silently debated whether or not to answer truthfully—he could always pass it off as another _bonehead_ decision, but would it be worth it? It seemed he took too long to come to a decision, because Ziva's voice drifted to his ears yet again.

"I know you are not asleep," she murmured. Gibbs chuckled softly. "See?"

"Well," he said finally, "had to see how far he'd go to protect you."

"What?" He could hear more clarity in her voice. "I do not need protection."

"Ah, not really," Gibbs concurred. "But the mutt has to earn his keep somehow."


	51. The Perfect Woman

_A/N: I know it's been forever, but finals came up and I had no time to update. I'll have you know that I just finished exams today, so I'll be around to hopefully get caught up. Oh, and summer is looking decidedly up as far as writing is confirmed.. Huh... who knew_?

* * *

The house was still and silent as Gibbs sipped his beer. There would be visitors tonight, he knew without a doubt. Either Tony would grace him with his presence and share his romantic woes, or Ziva come seeking comfort.

Gibbs could see that the current case was affecting both of his agents. Tony was the most obvious. He didn't even seem to be trying to hide his distress. He'd turned sullen and irritable nearly overnight, as soon as he'd gotten a glimpse of their missing reporter. All because she fit the cookie cutter stereotype he'd so innocently listed off to Ziva the morning they first got the case.

It all made Gibbs wonder how much DiNozzo had been thinking about his Mrs. Right. To the senior field agent's credit, the traits he'd tallied were more mature than the big-busted, narrow-waisted blonde Gibbs had expected of him. Never mind that the reporter ended up being a big-busted, narrow-waisted blonde anyway.

A knock on the door broke through Gibbs' thoughts, and he quickly stood to let his visitor in. True to his expectations, Ziva stood in the shadowed doorway, hand looped through a leash that linked her to the rambunctious pup that danced at her feet. One look was all it took to see the questions in her eyes as she looked up at him, the nervous apprehension at being thrust back into a situation she could not make sense of.

He stood aside without a word, and she entered just as silently. Chaka's tail whapped his hand as the dog passed, but for the most part he was ignored by Ziva's new companion. Gibbs helped Ziva out of her coat and hung it up on the rack beside the door as she went to sit on the sofa.

There would be no intimacy tonight. DiNozzo could come over at any time, unannounced, and Gibbs nearly shuddered to think how the man would react to finding out about them. They'd talked about telling the team, but now was neither the time nor the place. For now, they would be platonic. They would simply be two friends and coworkers discussing the case that had become their lives over the past few days.

Gibbs took a seat on the cushion next to her, but refrained from speaking. She'd come to him—she had questions that needed answering and concerns that needed airing. And she would start, when she was ready.

It was several long minutes before she finally took a breath to speak.

"We weren't out of line," she stated bluntly, her slender fingers working nervously at the nylon leash still around her wrist.

"What do you mean," he asked gently.

"In MTAC, when we were being briefed on Yuri. Tony said McGee and I were way off base when we theorized that Dana Hutton might have been involved with Yuri's operation." Finally, her eyes met his with burning intensity. "We were _not_ 'way off base'."

"I know that—"

"I know you do, you are practical. You look at what is presented to you and you do not disregard it simply because it goes against what you want to believe about a person. You are logical, and a good investigator."

"DiNozzo's a good investigator—"

"Not this week he wasn't," she interrupted harshly. "You taught me that investigators remain impartial on cases, that they do not allow their personal preconceptions color their judgment. We must remain objective, and sharp, and to chase down every lead, every possibility." Her hand began to rub the top of Chaka's head. "This week, Tony was everything _but_ all of that."

"I know."

"He was unprofessional, distracted, and much too attached to the missing woman. He was more focused on imagining a life with her than on the case she was a potential perpetrator in. He limited the scope of his investigation to locating her, when our _true_ investigation was the murder of her _brother_. The entire case, all he could see was _her _and anything that went against his idea of her was immediately disregarded!"

Her hands had slowly become more active as she spoke, emphasizing some of her words with swift and heavy motions. Chaka sensed her obvious distress, and a paw came up to rest on her knee with a soft whine. But Ziva's attention remained firmly fixed on Gibbs, her gaze riveting as she let her concerns take over.

"I know all that, Ziver," he said gently. And he did. But his acquiescence did not have the calming effect he'd intended. Instead, her stare twisted into a glare.

"Then why did you not say anything?! Why did you not pull him from the case? You saw him spiraling out of control, and you did nothing!"

Gibbs remained silent, unable to give her a decent answer.

"Did you know he went back to Dana Hutton's house one night?!" she shook her head then, waving the instance away. "But that doesn't matter, because you _know_ he got physical with the woman's segment producer. I know you know because I was the one who told you. And yet you allowed him to continue on the case, without censure."

She gave a heavy sigh, releasing a sharp breath of air that conveyed all of the confusion and frustration she felt.

"I do not understand," she continued more softly. "He went to her house _alone_, without backup and without letting anyone know where he would be. The only reason I knew he went was because I had followed him. I only wanted to talk to him, to try and help him, but when I saw where he'd gone…" Her hand returned to Chaka's head. "I guess it turned into more of a confrontation than a conversation," she confessed.

"What do you mean?"

Gibbs couldn't deny the concern that instantly flooded his consciousness. He didn't want to think that Tony might have gotten physical with her, but it was now evident that there was quite a bit he didn't know about his agent. And he _did _know that DiNozzo had a temper hidden behind that jovial and immature front he put up. And Ziva was the one person who never seemed to have any trouble piercing through that deceptive outer shell.

"He pushed me away," she responded quietly. Her gaze fell to her lap. "Shut me out… again."

And there it was. Here was the real reason she had come to him, and risked running into Tony in the process. And Gibbs didn't know what to say to comfort her.

"We were almost back to normal," Ziva continued, her voice almost mournful. "We were almost partners again, and suddenly he cannot stand me. As if I am suddenly offensive to him for doing my job." She sank back into the sofa cushions, her arm brushing Gibbs' slightly as she did so. "I do not understand."

"Sometimes the heart wants what it wants," Gibbs told her.

Brown eyes looked at him darkly. "That is not what I do not understand, Jethro. Well, I do not understand it, but I accept the fact that sometimes people form inexplicable relationships that can be sudden and… _overwhelming_." Her lips pressed together tightly as she continued to avoid his gaze. "I accept it because I have experienced the same, many years ago."

It took Gibbs a few moments to make the connection, but when he did, his hand immediately found hers.

"Roy Saunders."

Ziva nodded. "Yes. Roy. I was attracted to him, when I met him on that case. It might have been because I spent so long trying to recall how he was familiar to me, or it might have been something else, something less mundane, something more spiritual, but I felt genuine grief when he passed. And all throughout that case both you and Tony constantly reminded me to maintain my objectivity, to not get swept away. But when I tried to do the same for Tony, he… Nothing I said made any difference. I was suddenly Mossad again, unfamiliar with the whims of the heart. It was as if I were incapable of understanding anything that didn't involve guns or knives, just as he treated me when I first came here."

"Ziver—"

"I only wanted to help him. I did not intend to accuse him of anything I myself had not been guilty of in the past. But when he went to her house, and responded the way he did, I reacted. And in doing so, I think I may have destroyed everything we had rebuilt since—"

Her voice cut off abruptly, but she didn't need to complete her thought for Gibbs to know her meaning. Since Michael. Since they had left her in Israel. Since she'd returned to them. But he knew exactly what she meant, he knew just how much she worked to rebuild the trust that had been lost since the events that had nearly led to her death. He could still hear the hope that had been in her voice when she'd told him about the conversation they had shared in the hall the day they had found Chaka. He had shared in that hope, in his desire to see one of the best partnerships he'd ever seen.

But now all he could feel was anger at seeing Ziva blame herself for the new rift that had formed between them in the duration of the case. A rift that had formed solely because of DiNozzo's inability to maintain his focus, and was partly his own fault because he had erred on the side of caution and hesitated in calling his senior field agent out on his unprofessionalism.

And now he was kicking himself for making that decision.

"You're right," Gibbs said softly. She looked at him once more in silent question. "I should have pulled him from the case. I saw him spiraling, and I didn't do anything about it. That was a poor decision on my part."

"This is not your fault, Jethro," she contradicted. "Tony made his own decisions. And it was his choice to not heed the warnings McGee and I sent his way. He was aware of what was happening, and _he_ was the one who should assume responsibility for his actions. No one else made him do the things he did, or say the things he said."

"Still—"

"Still nothing," she interrupted. "I didn't come here for apologies. I do not expect any, and I do not want any."

Gibbs gave a small smile then. His thumb began to trace soft circles along the back of her hand. "What'd you come for then?"

At his question, her expression softened, and her hand twisted in his own until her fingers laced with his. She gave him a wry look.

"To… vent?" She looked at him in question, to check the use of her English, and he gave her a nod of approval. "To vent, then, I suppose. To get some of it off my chest. To explain to someone besides myself and a dog who cannot talk." She shrugged. "I am not sure. But besides Dr. Rodriguez, you are the only one I have to talk to. And I do not think Dr. Rodriguez would understand all of _this_." Her hand waved vaguely, and Gibbs' grin broadened.

"There are some things that even the best therapists can't explain," he said carefully, giving her hand a squeeze.

"And Anthony DiNozzo Jr. is one of them," she finished, returning his good-natured smile with one of her own. Her eyes lit up for a moment, but then her gaze shuttered once more.

Gibbs knew in an instant that there was something else. She hadn't gotten everything off her chest yet.

"What else?" he prompted gently.

He almost expected her shoulders to slump, for her expression to harden as she got to the heart of what was eating at her. But to his surprise, she shifted in her seat until she was facing him straight on, her movements sharp and energetic. And when her lips quirked into a curious, flirty smile, he found himself unable to resist mimicking both her position and expression.

"Something Tony said at the original crime scene has had me thinking," she told him, her words bright and easy. "His perfect woman was someone who was independent, intelligent, successful, and professional. Surprisingly, those all seem to be fairly tame, general— even common—expectations. In fact, I know several Israeli men who would be thrilled to have such a woman."

"Yeah," Gibbs agreed smoothly. "I heard him say that. I remember thinking how familiar that perfect woman sounded." His fingers drifted her shoulder, where they began to tease the ends of her hair. It didn't take long for Ziva to decrypt his words, and she rolled her eyes at his foolishness.

"Please," she scoffed. "I was ordered by a shrink to move out of my boyfriend's house to rebuild my sense of self-reliance, I'm a washed-out former Mossad officer who had to have dozens of strings pulled to get a job at NCIS, and on top of all that, I can barely stand in the same room as a burnt corpse without losing my lunch."

Gibbs' lips tightened slightly at her nonchalant delivery of her contradiction, but her smirk kept his mood light. "I'm not even going to tell you how you twisted every single part of your recovery thus far," he said with a tone of a half-hearted reprimand. "But I will point out that you left _intelligent_ uncontested."

He watched her lips part automatically, ready to remedy her oversight, but a moment, she closed her mouth again without a sound. She shrugged. "One out of four is not bad," she commented lightly. Then her lips curled into a smirk. "You cannot disguise intelligence. And my professional status has no affect on my mental acuity."

"Uh huh," Gibbs drawled in response. "At least we agree on something." He rolled her hair between his fingertips idly. "So what have you been thinking about, if you're so certain that you're none of those things that make the perfect woman?"

There was a moment of hesitation, but Gibbs quickly realized that it was not hesitation at all. He looked up to see glittering brown eyes regarding him, her sharp gaze analyzing him as she stared into his eyes. It was a familiar sight, but one he hadn't seen for quite some time. In fact, it was probably the longest she'd maintained eye contact with him since her return, since Michael had come to town last year. His heart started beating a little bit faster, and a familiar heat began to course through his veins.

Finally, her head cocked lightly to the side, her smirk still present. When she spoke, her voice was light but serious, a voice he knew her to use only when the topic was mundane but she expected an answer nonetheless—an answer that was both honest and direct. And he knew that if he didn't offer such an answer, there would be hell to pay.

"If I am not any of those things," she asked, her eyes still fixed on his, "then what is it that you see in me?"

Gibbs blinked, and then relief poured over him. For a moment, he'd thought her question would be deceptively challenging, one that would have a wrong answer, or one that he simply would not be able to answer without spending days mulling over his answer, searching for ways it could be misinterpreted. But this—this was easy.

This one he could answer in his sleep.

"Ah," he scoffed theatrically, his grin matching her smirk, "well, when I was younger, my perfect woman used to be simple—tall and a natural red-head." He shifted closer to her on the cushion, enjoying the warmth her skin provided when she did not move away. "But with age comes maturity, and with maturity, I've evolved into a man of subtle particulars."

"Subtle particulars, hm?" she echoed, her nose nearly brushing his as she leaned closer in challenge. By this point, their eye contact had broken, and instead Gibbs focused on the curve of her lips, and the flowers and spice that clung to her.

"Mmhmm," he murmured gently. "See, my perfect woman, she's independent, intelligent, successful, and professional, yeah, but she's also a lot more than that. She's got a wicked sense of humor, too."

"Just humor? Sounds a little boring…"

"Did I mention she knows how to fight? Can floor a man twice her size without batting an eye. Great shot, too, which _really _appeals to the sniper in me. Speaks right to the heart. Speaking of which, including the language of love, she speaks ten languages fluently, though I'm sure she could tack on a couple more if the standards for fluency are relaxed to the general public's standards. She's a mean cook, and she loves to read. Which, as you know, is an essential quality for my perfect woman since I have no TV."

"Now we're getting somewhere…" Her breath tickled the skin along the edge of his jaw, sending little sparks of electricity down his spine.

"She's humble too, modest. Amazing, but has to be reminded—a task that I am more than happy to undertake as often as necessary. Because even though she's striking out on her own for the first time in her life—becoming a citizen, starting over in a new country, learning to be who _she_ wants to be no matter how hard or daunting it might be—she still thinks people look down on her. Even though every single person who's met her has placed her on a pedestal so high that if they ever found out she'd fallen for a Joe Shmoe like me, they'd have an aneurysm."

This time, the only response was the sensation of her breath catching in her throat. But Gibbs didn't dare stop.

"And she's beautiful, with long brown hair that's as wild as she is, and legs that make grown men weak at the knees. But even more beautiful is her laugh, and the way the water runs over her skin when she's out in a rainstorm. Or the way she cuddles when she's tired, or how she only snores when she's trying to convince people she's asleep."

Her shoulders jumped as she gave a soft snort of mirth, and he knew he'd hit the nail right on the head. She'd never realized he'd noticed her little trick.

"Well, of course she doesn't snore," she offered huskily. "If she'd snored like that on a mission she'd get herself shot the first night."

"Exactly," he agreed. "But you know, what makes her _my_ perfect woman is the fact that she's not really perfect. She's flawed, just liked me. Scarred, just like me. She has nightmares, but she lets me be the one to help her through them, lets _me_ be the one to hold her until she falls back to sleep. She's lost just as much as I have, maybe even more, but she doesn't let it keep her from pursuing the future she wants for herself.

"She's a walking contradiction," he continued softly. "She was an assassin, but will take in a half-starved mutt simply because it's the right thing to do. She's got a temper something fierce, but is also the most loyal and caring person I've ever met. Hell, she'll put herself on the line again and again for a partner who doesn't deserve her, even when her partner pushes her away. She'll show compassion to a doped up super-soldier, and give her heart to an old Marine who counts his stars every day she allows him to love her."

His hand had already abandoned its hold on her hair. Now it rested gently on her cheek as he whispered into her ear.

So much for no intimacy, he thought to himself. But then he gave a mental shrug and a smug grin. Screw DiNozzo. If the man walked in right now, convention be damned—Gibbs was not about to move. He could feel that Ziva was enjoying his touch as much as he enjoyed touching her.

"Is that all?" came the breathless query. Beneath his fingertips her cheeks were flushed, and he knew that he had gotten to her. Hell, he had gotten to _him,_ if his racing pulse was anything to go by. Gibbs grinned, and the resulting arch of his cheeks brushed against her jaw, thrilling him.

"There is one more thing," he murmured smugly. "Something that truly makes her the only one for me."

"And what is that?" Her voice had darkened with desire, and Gibbs knew he would be hard-pressed to not push the boundaries she had carefully erected to protect herself. But he answered anyway, unable to keep the truth to himself in the light of such intense interrogation.

"She also agreed to marry me."


	52. A Dilemma of Morals and Codes

_A/N: Wow, you guys! 404 reviews, 52 chapters and counting! This is totally awesome! Now, I just found out my summer plans are pretty much up in the air, so I'm going to posting as much as I can, as much as that is, until I just up and vanish. But I think you guys are awesome, and wanted to let you know I've had the most awesome time writing this monstrously long thing. You know, I don't think I ever intended it to be this long, but now I can't see it ever stopping, as long as there are new episodes coming._

_And just a sidenote here: I saw this random little posting on the fic page that asked for spoiler warnings to be posted in the summary, so overseas readers wouldn't get blindsided... I agree with the message (though not the posting of the not!fic on the fic page), but I think at this point, if you're not aware that there are spoilers in this story... Well, putting a warning in the summary won't do you any good. I don't something about the whole thing made me laugh, but that could also have something to do with the fact I was in the middle of finals when I read the not!fic._

_Anywho, enjoy!_

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She didn't know why she was there.

She'd just gotten home, but there was only one person she wanted to see. She needed to talk, to relieve the tension that had been pulling at her for days. She hated that feeling, and coupled with the eerie feeling of being a puppet, she felt like she was going to be sick.

But she knocked on the door in front of her, eliciting a cacophony of barking from within. A soft mutter silenced the dog, and the door swung open, revealing a young woman with dark curly hair in a pair of yoga pants and a tank top.

"Abby?" It was impossible to mistake the shock in Ziva's voice. "What are you—?"

Surprised brown eyes were met with watery green ones, and a moment later Abby had launched herself into her friend's arms. The agent stiffened at the unexpected assault, but quickly softened, her own arms coming up to wrap around Abby's trembling shoulders.

Abby buried her face in Ziva's shoulder, willing the tears to stay where they were, to not fall. She tried to focus on something else, anything else than her own heartbreak. She heard Ziva mutter something to the dog who was growling nervously at Abby's actions, and it quieted almost instantly. She remembered that she'd forgotten to take off her choker and wrist cuffs.

The door clicked closed behind her, and Abby felt Ziva guide them both a step farther into the apartment. Her back started to hurt from the awkward strain of having to stoop to meet Ziva's shoulder, with their obvious height discrepancies, and she finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her shirtsleeve.

"I don't know what to do, Ziva," she said shakily. She'd hoped to explain everything logically, but once she'd started speaking, the dam was broken, and all of her uncertainty came pouring out. "I'm not supposed to know this stuff, I don't _want_ to know this stuff! I've never wished I was wrong before, but now I really really hope I am, because if I'm right then I don't know what to do and I'm scared—"

At this, a protective ferocity shadowed Ziva's features. "Who has frightened you?" she demanded forcefully, her voice dark with intensity. "Did someone threaten you in Mexico?"

"No, no," Abby was quick to clarify. Then, she caught herself. "Well, yes, someone did, but that's not what I meant—"

"Then what has frightened you?" Confusion tinged the agent's voice now. "Abby, I am not sure I understand—"

"Pedro Hernandez."

The name came out before Abby could catch herself, and a moment later she was glad that she had such poor self-control. For in that next moment, there was no gasp of shock, no spark of recognition, but the confusion had left Ziva's features, and the familiar cool mask of interrogation-resistant Mossad claimed her friend's expression. To anyone else, the change would have been imperceptible, but Abby saw it, and knew it for what it was.

"Ziva, please," she said, her desperation evident as her long pale fingers sought her friend's arm, latching on tightly. "I know you know something, if not everything. And I need to know—I need to know how to deal with all of this. I need to know what I should do, because right now all of my options are bad or worse, and I can't handle all this on my own, and no one else knows—"

"Abby." Ziva's voice was suddenly gentle, and warm fingers pried Abby's hand from her arm before clasping it between both of her own in comfort. "Come," she welcomed softly. She moved smoothly over to the couch, guiding Abby along behind her. "Sit."

Once the Goth had obeyed, Ziva perched on the cushion next to her, not breaking her hold on Abby's hand. It remained firmly between her fingers, and Abby was grateful for the calming effect her touch had on her frayed nerves.

"Now," Ziva continued gently. "Take a deep breath, and start over. From the very beginning." She looked intently into Abby's eyes, and the scientist was suddenly overcome by the realization that she was no longer alone in her dilemma. Ziva would help her, and be with her every step of the way. Finally, for the first time in days, the vise that had been squeezing her chest relaxed, and she could breathe again. "Tell me everything."

And so Abby did. She started from when the plane had landed in Mexico, and revealed everything that had happened since. Everything from McGee's stomach troubles, to the flirty Mexican who first thrilled Abby and then turned into someone who left a bad taste in her mouth. She told Ziva about her class, and the cold case that had led them all out into the desert, where she had met the Renosa cartel. And she revealed everything that had come to light after that souvenir had been tossed her way, the all-too-familiar Lapua 308 boat tail, full metal jacket, moly-coated bullet that made her gut clench in realization.

Ziva remained calm throughout, void of any reaction, and Abby knew she would be able to sift out the important parts from the parts she simply rambled on about. She let Abby get through everything she needed to, and even after she had finished, there was a long moment where nothing but silence and the sound of the dog's nails clicking on the hardwood floor could be heard as the agent gathered her thoughts, and processed what had been shared with her.

Finally, Ziva released a smooth, steadying breath.

"You are very lucky, Abby," she said, her voice low in its seriousness. "The Renosa cartel is extremely dangerous, and by all reports you would be dead right now if you had not informed them of your intentions."

"What do you mean? I mean, I know they're dangerous, they had guns and stuff—but how do you know about the cartel?"

"Mossad keeps track of several Central American drug cartels, though the focus mostly remains on their connections rather than their trade. There have been many reports of the Renosa's ruthlessness and fierce territoriality. In the past, it had gotten to the point where even terrorists sought other suppliers in order to distance themselves from the infighting and the pressure from Los Federales."

Abby stared at her. It hadn't really hit her, how close she had come to death that afternoon. And once she'd taken a look at the bullet, any post-traumatic concerns had been obliterated. But now, having it presented to her so bluntly… it was decidedly weird. Because she didn't feel lucky. Actually, she had kind of liked the Renosa lady, in a weird respectful sort of way.

But that wasn't what she had come here for, Abby reminded herself.

"You know about Pedro Hernandez," she stated firmly, pegging Ziva with a hard stare. "It doesn't surprise me that you do, I mean, you're Gibbs'… Well, you've lived with him, and he trusts you, I know he does. But did he tell you if he really—? Do you know why… if…" Abby fell silent then, unable to properly give voice to the apprehension that filled her every time she thought about what the truth might actually reveal.

She wanted to know, but at the same time absolutely did _not_ want to know.

"I do know." Ziva's voice was quiet, soft, but strong and certain at the same time. Abby's heart sank, her suspicions confirmed. Her eyes remained on Ziva's though, willing her to continue, to explain. "Gibbs speaks very little of his family," the agent continued. "But he has said absolutely nothing about their deaths, or anything that happened afterwards."

"Then how did you know about Hernandez?"

There was a moment of hesitation, almost imperceptible, before Ziva spoke again. "I know a great deal about the team, Abby," she told the Goth. "A great deal that I am sure you would prefer I did not know. The dossiers I compiled for Ari were very thorough—I left no stone unturned. I knew about Gibbs' family before I even came to NCIS, and I had read newspaper articles about how they were killed. Pedro Hernandez was a person of interest, and the suspected perpetrator, but there was not enough evidence to arrest, let alone convict. He was untouchable."

She paused, giving Abby time to speak up if she wanted to, but Abby could barely breathe around the lump in her throat. Any thoughts of voicing any of the questions tumbling around in her head were quickly abandoned as a lost cause.

"By that point, I had a fair idea of what kind of man Gibbs was, and I suspected—" She caught herself abruptly, and Abby knew she was reluctant to be as brusque as she usually was, for her sake. After a moment, she tried again. "On a hunch, I looked for Pedro Hernandez. I found his obituary, and I knew."

"So Mossad knows that Gibbs—" Shock and the overwhelming urge to dissolve into tears closed Abby's throat. "They could tell Vance whenever they want, and there'd be nothing—"

"Mossad knows nothing." Ziva's voice was suddenly hard. "My search was for profiling purposes only. Specific details meant less to Ari than an overview of whom he would be interacting with on his mission. There was no need for Ari or anyone else to know what I found."

Relief surged through Abby. At least that ruled out one suspicion she'd had—Mossad was not the one pulling strings. So that left Vance and… well, just Vance really. So far. But at least Mossad was not in the picture at this point. That would be too much for her to handle.

"I don't know what to do," Abby said softly, her shoulders slumping. She stared at her hands, and the tanned fingers covering them. "I don't want to tell anyone what I found, but I can't hide it either. I just can't. Everyone deserves justice, no matter who they are."

Ziva's lips curled ever so slightly. "You are questioning that conviction," she stated bluntly. "You know who that man was, what he did. He was a drug dealer and a murderer, and you are wondering whether that man is really worth the turmoil that is sure to come if you do honor your notion of justice."

"Yeah," Abby whispered. But then she shook her head, sweeping to her feet in increased agitation. "But no. The whole point of everything we do at NCIS is to show that individuals do not have the right to decide who lives and who dies. There's a system, and it's our job as citizens to honor that system. We live by laws, and if someone breaks those laws, then they have to be subject to the punishment. No exceptions."

"If you were so sure of that, Abby, you would not have come here."

Abby froze, then turned on Ziva, ready to snap at her for her assumptions. But one look at the quiet understanding in her friend's expression drained the fight from her. She sighed defeatedly, and nervously bit her lip.

"You're right. I don't know what to do. The scientist in me is telling me that I am honor-bound to report what I found. That I have a responsibility to tell the truth. But the other part of me, the part of me that keeps hearing Gibbs say that he has my back no matter what, the Gibblet part of me… It knows that this is all wrong. I shouldn't even be thinking about turning Gibbs in, even if he did commit a crime."

"Forgive me if I am overstepping my bounds," Ziva said softly, "but I do not think that is what is bothering you. At least, it is not the part that has driven you to come to me."

"What do you mean?"

Ziva hesitated, suddenly uncertain. But when she spoke her voice was firm, confident.

"You are mad at Gibbs, for putting you in this position. You feel betrayed, because you feel he did not trust you enough to tell you about this earlier."

"That's crazy," Abby scoffed defensively. "He didn't even tell you, why would he have told me?"

"He did not have to tell me," Ziva corrected. "I already knew, and even though he might not have known for sure, he suspected that I knew what he had done to avenge his family. And you have known him for much longer than I have. You have a bond that no one else on the team shares. You trust him implicitly, and you're angry that he has shattered the illusion you have of him."

"What illusion?"

"That he is a champion for justice. That he is a hero who follows the spirit of the law, even if he does bend them for the sake of justice. That he does not make mistakes, or could be anything other than perfect." Ziva rose slightly, just enough to perch on the armrest.

She could now look at Abby without having to crane her neck up. Her hands folded calmly on her lap, and an annoyingly knowing gaze regarded Abby where she remained frozen. Abby wanted to tell her to stop, that she didn't know anything, but found herself unable to.

"You are angry that you can no longer trust so implicitly. You are angry that he has taken that from you."

Dead silence fell over them. After a moment, Abby's mouth began working, trying to fire off a protest that would tell Ziva just how wrong she was. Only… she wasn't. She was spot on. Everything she'd said, everything Abby had spent the past three days trying to deny—it was all true. And now, she had nothing left to hide behind.

But instead of admitting that, Abby began to pace again.

"What am I supposed to do?" she pleaded, only half to herself. "What should I do?"

"That is not something I can tell you, Abby," came the diplomatic reply. "That is something you must decide for yourself."

"Well, myself is not really functioning right now," Abby snapped. "Myself is barely able to process what's happening, let alone make any freaking decisions!"

Her outburst came swift and sure, but as quickly as it had come, guilt followed in its wake. She turned back to Ziva apologetically, but instead of the nervous hurt Abby expected to see, the agent was sporting an expectant grin that was coupled with an understanding grin.

"I hate it when you look at me like that," Abby muttered. "You should be freaking out. Why aren't you freaking out? You're way too calm. It's creepy."

"I have accepted this part of Gibbs' nature. It has been difficult to make sense of, at times, especially now that I have attempted to mold myself to American standards. But I have long known that Gibbs followed his own code. You have known it as well."

"You don't know—"

"Yes, I do, Abby," Ziva quickly interrupted. "Whatever you want to believe about him, you cannot deny that Gibbs has never made any qualms about his loyalties, or what he is willing to do for his loyalties. He has many layers, many defenses, but he has absolutely no pretense about him. You had to have known that he would not let his family's killer go free."

"But—"

"No buts, Abby. You cannot deny it. You've seen it yourself. With Kate."

Instinctive hurt and shock bubbled to the surface, and before she could censor herself, Abby reacted.

"Don't you dare bring her into this—"

"I must," came the unfazed response. "I was there for the aftermath, Abby. I saw the rage that burned in Gibbs' eyes as he searched for my brother. You might not want to acknowledge it, but I know that part of you realized that Gibbs had absolutely no intention of bringing Ari in alive. Ari killed Kate, and Gibbs was going to kill Ari in return."

"Gibbs _did_ kill Ari," Abby pointed out. Eyebrows quirked up in surprise, but Abby didn't notice.

"Yes," Ziva corrected softly. "Gibbs killed Ari. And that is my point. _That_ is Gibbs' sense of justice. _That _is his code. You know that he would do the same for any one of us. And I know that he would go to the same lengths to make sure we do not meet the same fate as Agent Todd."

"He's got our backs," Abby whispered.

"Yes," came the affirmation. "He does. And that gives me more comfort than it does concern."

"But… it's not right," Abby finished lamely. She was running out of excuses, but was no closer to knowing what to do.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I don't follow the _warrior code of honor_ that you guys do. I'm a scientist, I deal with facts, and I operate by a certain set of rules. I can't disregard them just because I want to."

"This isn't about a warrior code of honor, Abigail."

The use of her given name made Abby pause. She couldn't remember a single time where Ziva had used her full name since being so harshly corrected during her first case at NCIS. Abby had fairly ripped her a new one, and Ziva had been careful to never use it again. But now her voice was stern, and Abby knew that Ziva wanted her to listen, and to comprehend.

"It is about knowing that I will never again have to worry about dying at the hands of some unidentified assailant. It is about knowing that even if harm did come to me, Gibbs would hunt down my assailant and make him pay for it, giving those left behind some sort of closure."

Ziva stood, her shoulders square and confident as she strode to where Abby stared at her. Tan arms folded matter-of-factly over her chest, and Ziva's brown eyes rooted the scientist to the spot. When she spoke, Ziva's voice was strong, filled with gratitude and emotions that Abby could hear but not identify.

"Gibbs has already proven that he would go to the ends of the earth to ensure that I would not die a nameless, faceless death in the desert. That my killer would not go unpunished. That means more to me than any law your government ever adopted. And you helped him accomplish his mission last summer, Abby, even after you discovered that I had kept things from NCIS."

"But this is different," Abby countered. "This is bigger, this is…" She began to pace once more. "I'm not like you guys, Ziva. I don't have that tough, rules-be-damned abandon. If this was just him and me, that would be one thing. But this involves our jobs, our cases, two different governments, ruthless drug cartels… Whatever I choose, there's gonna be miles of repercussions, more than we can even predict right now."

Suddenly, she stopped her pacing. She turned back to where Ziva was waiting patiently.

"What would you do?"

For some reason, Ziva seemed taken aback by the question, as if surprised that Abby would care about what she would do if faced with the same dilemma. Well, in a way, she _was_ being presented with the same dilemma—this was going to affect the whole team before it was over.

"I do not think that is the question you should be asking me," Ziva responded carefully.

Abby stared at her. "Why not?"

"Because we are not the same, Abby. You have not shared the life I've lived, nor I yours. I am more guttural, like Gibbs, and you are more… cerebral. I operate on instinct and reflex, but you allow logic and rationality to order your life. What I would do is not necessarily what you would do."

Abby looked at her for a long moment after she had finished. "Wow," she said, stunned. "That was… really insightful, Ziva." She peered at her friend. "And weird. Are you feeling okay?" Ziva arched a brow at her, and Abby instantly cowed. "You've really noticed all that?"

"I have been your friend for several years now, Abby. I would hope that I've realized that much about you," she retorted with a grin. "Besides, I told you. My dossiers on all of you were very thorough. I know much more about you than that."

Abby's eyes widened, but she latched onto the change of subject like it was a life preserver. "What? How much more?" She fixed Ziva with a part-stern, part-horrified stare. "You even investigated me?"

"Mmhmm. I know almost everything." Ziva was teasing now, Abby could tell, and she responded with a smirk of her own.

"Even the AnimeUSA of '98?" she asked. Ziva gave a smug, knowing grin, eliciting a shocked squawk from Abby. "You _do_ know about that?"

"Better," Ziva returned smugly. "I have pictures."

"_What?_"

"What was that thing you were wearing anyway?"

"_Not_ relevant," Abby declared, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment. "And I'm not going to ask how you got pictures of that." She shook her head, a brief grin gracing her lips for a moment. But then her features fell once more as the worry that had been plaguing her returned full-force.

Ziva must have seen the change, but she remained silent, waiting for Abby to make the first move. It gave Abby the chance to gather her thoughts, and decide her next course of action. Ziva's presence beside her was calming, and she was able to steady herself internally before she looked at her friend once more.

"If you know me so well," she started carefully, "then what would you do, _if_ you were me?"

Ziva stared at her blankly for a moment, before her head tilted pensively as she considered the question. Abby thought she might only shrug, or give some kind of zen response that would leave her back at square one, but to her surprise, the answer that came was neither inconclusive nor impartial.

"Well," Ziva said slowly. "You are a scientist. You said so yourself." She tilted her head inquisitively. "What do you do when the math does not add down?"

Abby blinked. "What?"

"When you are working on something, and something is hinky, what do you do?"

"I tell Gibbs."

"But if what you are working on is not for NCIS, but for a symposium, and your preparation reveals something that does not work into your existing thesis, what do you do?"

"I find out what that something is, where it came from, why I didn't see it coming…" She rattled off the list numbly, still not understanding what Ziva was getting at.

"And would you do that before or after presenting your research at the symposium?"

"Before, obviously. I'd be laughed off the stage if I left something so glaringly out of whack in my research without looking into it."

"Exactly," Ziva stated firmly. "And that is what you should do."

"What is?"

Ziva sighed. "Abby, you said it yourself. Something is not adding up. You had a hinky feeling."

"Someone's pulling my—oh." Comprehension dawned. "Oh. Right. Duh. I totally should have seen that…"

"_That_ is what I would, if I were you. Gather all the facts, study all the evidence, and get the _full_ picture before reporting anything to anyone." Ziva grinned at Abby, who was looking sheepishly at her. "And this is what you came here for. For clarity, yes?"

"Of course," Abby returned enthusiastically. The wheels in her head started up again, and she mentally began to go through what she'd found so far, even as she began to ramble once more. "God, I've been so stupid! Here I am, worrying about all this Gibbs business—and you're right, I guess I always did know he was capable of doing… well, you know— well, anyway… when I totally should have been focusing on the why! The why now, why Gibbs, why me? Who knows us well enough to get me down to Mexico to look at cold cases, and to give me that specific case, of all the cold cases Mexico must have—"

The rambling broke off suddenly, and then in the next moment pale arms were pulling Ziva close, enveloping her in a fierce embrace. She held it until Ziva began to choke for air, and then loosened her grip ever so slightly, refusing to pull away.

"Thank you so much, Ziva," she whispered. "Thank you for everything. There's no one else I could have gone to, even if I'd wanted to go to someone else, and I'm really, really lucky you're my friend. Or, you know, that I'm _your _friend. I'm not really sure how that works—"

"Abby…"

"Right, not important." Abby pulled back, taking a moment to look her in the eye. "You know what I mean."

"Indeed," Ziva affirmed. Her voice softened then. "And you know that you are welcome here whenever you need clarity in the future, yes?"

"Now I do," Abby intoned brightly. The worry was still there, but now she could at least put it on the backburner, and focus her efforts and attention on figuring out who wanted Gibbs in trouble. "And, I might be taking you up on that soon. You know, if chasing down the math reveals something horrible."

"Chasing down the math?" Ziva's brow furrowed in confusion. "I am not familiar—"

"Earlier, you asked about when the math didn't add up—well, you _said_ 'add down', but you meant 'add _up_'…"

"Ah, yes. I understand. Noted."

"Ziva, I need to go. Now that I know what I can do to help Gibbs, I have to go do it. I mean, I know I won't be able to solve it one night, but right now I have to go do something helpful, because the other stuff I've been doing recently has only been terrible and awful—"

"I understand," Ziva interrupted with a grin. "Do not linger on my account."

Abby gave her a grateful smile, and one more quick hug before moving towards the door. Ziva watched her go, but when Abby's hand touched the doorknob to let herself out, she froze. Slowly, she turned back around to look at her friend, her green eyes serious.

"Ziva," she said slowly, tentatively, "what would you do?"

Silence reigned for several long moments, before Ziva even seemed to register the question.

"I mean, it's obvious what Gibbs would do," Abby continued, "and you know what I would do, but… what would _you_ do?"

It seemed like an eternity before Ziva decided to answer, but Abby waited patiently. And when she finally spoke, her lips curved into a pleasant smile that clashed with gleaming eyes that were hard with conviction.

"Whatever it takes."

The intensity of her response surprised Abby, but a voice inside her told her that she should have expected it. Warrior code of honor, and all that.

"Abby."

The utterance of her name broke through Abby's thoughts, and she looked up to see Ziva regarding her with a warm gaze. And Abby realized that she had never really noticed how comforting Ziva could be… how _maternal_ even, in a big sister kind of way. It made Abby feel safe, much to her surprise.

"You keep saying that you can't do _this_, that you could never do_ that_," Ziva continued, once she was certain she had the Goth's attention. "You point out all the things that set you apart from Gibbs and myself, but you neglect to mention your own convictions."

"What do you mean?"

"Three words," Ziva said bluntly. "_No forensic evidence._" Her lips curled into a smirk when she saw Abby's obvious surprise. "That is what you are always threatening McGee with, yes?"

"Well, yeah," Abby spluttered, "but…"

"You claim you are not capable of many things, Abigail Sciuto. But I think, when the time comes to make a stand… that will be the moment you realize just exactly how much you are capable of doing."


	53. The Downside of Vengeance

_A/N: And so marks the last chapter for Something More until I finish watching the finale in July. I will not be able to watch it until then, so please, NO SPOILERS! There should be another update when I see the second part, unless I absolutely cannot stand what TPTB have done to our favorite TV show. But keep an eye out for updates anyway. _

_Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

When Gibbs was ushered into the back room of the ballistics lab, he wasn't exactly sure what he expected.

He figured that Abby didn't really have evidence to show him back there, as she'd claimed. At most, he figured she was trying to trap him again, to force him into talking. But when the door closed behind him, with the Goth on the other side with the remote, he couldn't keep his consternation hidden.

"Abby, open the door," he ordered sternly, glaring at her through the bulletproof viewing window in the door. She waggled her fingers at him smugly, but made no move to do as he asked. "Abby, now!"

"No can do, Bossman!" she told him enthusiastically. "See yah!"

Shocked, Gibbs stared after her as she turned on her heel and left him alone. Images of being left there for God knew how long ran through his head, and he was suddenly struck by the idea that he should have talked to her when she'd asked him to.

"Dammit, Abby!" he shouted angrily. "Get back here!"

"Do not be angry with her," a soft voice from behind him said.

He whirled to find Ziva leaning casually against the adjacent wall. He hadn't noticed her when he'd entered, and he was acutely aware how off his game he was. Not surprisingly, the self-discovery only angered him more. Of all times to be off his game, this was not it.

He needed to be focused, and being blind-sided by his employees was not helping.

"I asked her to give us a few minutes," Ziva continued softly. Her eyes were dark, and dangerously vulnerable.

"We got a case to work, Ziva," Gibbs said bluntly, ignoring her desire to have a serious conversation.

She pushed away from the wall, and if he'd been any less exhausted, any less rattled by the identity of their victim and her possible connection to the past, he would have seen how tense Ziva's frame was.

But he wasn't, and he didn't.

"I know that, Jethro," she said, her tone hardening. "And I also know that this case is growing more personal by the second. It is affecting you, and it is affecting the team."

"Now's not the time for this—"

"Then when _is_ it the time for this, Jethro? When it _you _are the one who turns up dead?"

Gibbs froze.

"Yes," she continued bitterly, "I know of Special Agent Macy's connection to you. I know that she was not killed because of a witness who refused to testify against her rapists. I know that someone with extreme skill killed her—assassinated her." She gave him a hard look laden with skepticism. "You think you are the only one who can put the pieces together?"

She stalked towards him, never once breaking eye contact with him. It unnerved him, the steel of her gaze. For so long now, her brown eyes had held nothing but tenderness for him. But now they were on the verge of distrust. He was walking a thin line, and he knew it, but the need to protect her overrode every better sense he had.

"It doesn't concern you—"

In a flash, she was on him. An arm pressed against his chest, slamming him into the door, and her right hand came up to slam against the metal inches beside his head.

"ENOUGH!" she shouted, her eyes flashing dangerously.

He froze, as much in instinctive self-preservation as in a conscious heeding of her command. She dug her elbow into his pectoral, emphasizing her words. "Do _not_ say that this does not concern me." Her voice dropped to a threatening pitch. "Because it does. It concerns you, and so concerns me."

"Ziver—"

"What do you think will happen, Gibbs?" she cut him off before he could phrase a protest. "If this _is_ Bell that we're dealing with, do you think he is going to stop with Macy and Franks?" She paused for a moment, then took a breath to steady herself. "I know your connection to Pedro Hernandez."

Her revelation came blunt and heavy, nearly taking the breath from his chest. He'd always suspected she might've figured out what happened in Mexico, since she had discovered on her own reconnaissance what had happened to his family. But hearing the affirmation fall so easily from her lips made his gut clench in apprehension.

"You are concerned about Franks because he was in on the cover up. Because he knows, just as Macy did, how far you went in the name of vengeance. Well, I know now, as does Abby. And Ducky just came to me, and he has discovered the truth as well.

"There is a good chance that we are _all_ in the crosshairs now, Jethro. Bell does not want to put you in jail. He wants to destroy you, and just like Ari wanted to. And like Ari, he knows the best way to do that is to go through those around you. Which means my life might be on the line now as well, so do not dare tell me that this does not concern me."

She pushed away from him, her eyes full of reproach. "Because it does," she added finally.

"Ziver…"

She waved away his words with a shake of her finger, turning away from him even as she continued to speak. "Did you not think I would understand why you did what you did? It was years ago, and you had just lost your family. You think I would not understand your thirst for retribution?" She turned back to face him. "Did you think I had never taken my own vengeance in the past?"

He stayed silent, unable to find words that seemed adequate. He merely watched as she began to pace.

"Do you think you are the only one who has lost family to senseless violence, violence they had no business being a part of?" Her eyes darted to him briefly before looking away once more. "We are more alike than you realize."

"How?" He hated how petulant his voice sounded, but Ziva seemed not to notice, too wrapped up in whatever memories were being dragged to the surface.

There was only a moment of hesitation before she responded.

"When my sister was caught in a suicide bombing, I was overcome with grief. And that grief turned to hate. I tracked down the cell responsible for the attack, captured all those not killed in the immediate firefight, and then interrogated each of them for information I knew they did not have."

Her voice was cold, emotionless. For a moment, he was allowed to glimpse the person her father had wanted her to be—dark, vengeful, and merciless. And with his own past so close within reach, such emotions were all too familiar.

"I tortured them for the pain they had caused my sister, and for the pain they had caused me. And when I was done I let them be dumped in the desert to rot, but not before I'd cut off their heads and sent them to where their central cell was based."

She finally looked away from him.

"That was the closest my father had ever come to being proud of me," she admitted softly. "But I didn't do it for him. I did it for me, and even though I know Tali would have hated to know that I caused such suffering in her name, I avenged her. Those responsible for her death paid in kind."

For a moment, her expression remained strikingly dark. Then, her features softened, and she stepped closer to him, her voice becoming even more tenuous.

"I do not want to have to seek the same outcome for you, Jethro. I do not want to be forced to seek vengeance for you as well. I do not want this man to cause you harm. But if you do not trust us, if you do not trust _me_, to help you with this burden…"

She let it hang open ended, and he looked away in shame.

"What is it you want me to say?"

"I do not care what you say. What you say means nothing. What I want you _do_ is let us help. You cannot deal with this on your own."

"The hell I can't—"

"Enough with the rough act!" she exclaimed, turning on him in anger. Her eyes zeroed in on him, rooting him to the spot. It didn't even occur to him to correct her.

"You do not have to pretend with me, Jethro. I know that all of this has you scared. It is scaring me too. I am scared the Bell might already have found Franks, and that Leyla and the child might have been caught in the crossfire, like they had the last time."

At the mention of the young mother, Ziva's features softened abruptly. "Have you been able to reach him yet?" she asked quietly.

Gibbs sighed, running a tired hand over his eyes. "No. Only Camila. Last I talked to her, the Federales were at Franks' place."

"The Federales?" Confusion furrowed her brow. "What do they want with Franks?"

"Well, obviously, they have something to do with Bell…"

"No," Ziva countered. "No, they arrested him, and he got out of prison due to international strings being pulled courtesy of your resident tramp lawyer." She began to pace again, only this time her expression was thoughtful. "They wouldn't be on his paycheck. Not all of them, anyways. And Franks stays mostly off the grid."

"Well, he wasn't there when Camila was," Gibbs supplied, grateful to have changed the subject somewhat. "Which means that he's probably ahead of whoever _is_ behind it."

"But you know that will not last for long," she accused, her eyes narrowing at him. She paused in her pacing, and regarded him with a cool eye. "You are going back to Mexico."

He gave a short, but hesitant nod.

"Good," she returned bluntly. "So am I."

"No you're not," he answered quickly, the words almost running together. He really should have seen that one coming. And yet, he was surprised anyway.

Her eyes narrowed even further, only this time in challenge. "Yes, I am. I am not letting you go down there, possibly into a trap, by yourself. I am the person most qualified to accompany you."

"You're also days away from taking your exam. I'm not willing to jeopardize that."

"It is not yours to jeopardize, Jethro." Her voice was hard and unyielding. Then, she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "You still do not get it, do you?"

"Oh, I get it. You're willing to risk everything. Well, I'm not."

"And now you sound like DiNozzo. Just shut up for a moment, all right?" Obediently, Gibbs shut his mouth, though his eyes bore into hers expectantly. She hesitated, suddenly wary. "Am I an idiot?" she asked finally.

His brow furrowed in confusion, and almost opened his mouth to respond. But at the last moment, he remembered her instruction, and shut his mouth once more. It turned out to be the right answer, it seemed, as she continued on her own.

"Am I an idiot for believing you?"

At this, Gibbs was unable to keep silent. "Believing me…?"

"When you promised you would wait for me, that you would be there when I was ready to commit to something other than my recovery… Was I an idiot to believe you?"

"No." His answer came quick and blunt. "No, you weren't—"

"Because you made a promise to me. You did not have to accept my proposal. You could have said no, and been done with it. But you did accept, and you _promised_—"

"I intend to keep that promise, Ziva," he assured her, his tone not leaving room for protest. "What do you think I'm trying to do here?"

"I know what you _think_ you are trying to do," she responded, her arms folding crossly over her chest. "But you are being too thick-headed to realize that you are simply making it easier for them to kill you."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ziver."

"I would have utilized more tact, but it would have been lost on you," she retorted. "Think about it, Jethro. He wants to get to you. In order to do so, he has to isolate you. That means keeping secrets, shutting people out, and going off on your own without a word to anyone. Right now, you are on track to hit the trifecta."

"Trifecta? Really?"

"I have been watching CSI reruns when I cannot sleep," she explained offhandedly. "But that is not the point. The point is that if you do not include me, or the rest of your team, you _will_ die. And they will get away with it."

"Ziva…"

"I understand that you want to keep this secret. But your secret is out. And while I am not saying you should out yourself to the entire agency, you should at least take advantage of those who have already figured it out. That means Abby, and Ducky, and myself. Between us, you would be infinitely safer than if you continued to do this alone."

This time, Gibbs was the one who stepped closer to her, forcing her to fall silent as she met his hard gaze with one of her own.

"We've had this conversation before," he told her stiffly. "I am not going to risk your life for mine. No matter what you say, my life isn't worth yours."

He expected her to protest as violently as she had a few minutes ago, or with some snarky comment designed to make him feel like a child. But when she spoke, the tender vulnerability in her voice made him feel like a monster.

"So you're willing to let me live alone?" Her arms wrapped around herself, as warding off a chill only she could feel.

"You want me to lose the last person in the world who can find it in their heart to love me, despite everything that makes me undesirable? To stand aside as a sorry excuse of a man and his tramp of a lawyer destroys the one person who understands me better than anyone else in the world?"

For the first time, he found his resolve starting to break, when he saw the tears gathering in her eyes.

"You would truly ask that of me?"

Silence reigned, for several long, agonizing moments. Gibbs was at a loss as to what to tell her. Hearing her concerns, and hearing what she feared she would be forced to face if Bell were successful… He found it impossible to tell her that alive and heartbroken was better than dead.

Alive and heartbroken would give her a chance to find someone else. She was young, around the age he had been when Shannon and Kelly had died—when all of this first started. And though it hadn't seemed possible at the time, he'd found someone else.

He'd found Ziva.

And now he had the chance to ensure that she had the same chance, should something happen to him.

"And you speak of concern for my citizenship exam," Ziva continued, "but you do not realize that being a citizen means nothing to me. Not without you." Her voice was hardening with each word, growing tense as she realized just how much she was capable of losing.

"The only reason I am taking this test is so that I can stay here with you and not have to hide. So that I can legally have the might of the United States government at my back should my father try to force my hand. I love this country, yes, but I love the people in it more. And as much as I love this team, if it were not for you, I would rather run and keep them safe than stay and risk their safety."

Angry tears pooled in her eyes, but Gibbs refused to let himself be affected by the sight of them. He shuffled his feet slightly, let his gaze drift around the room.

"So you know where I'm coming from here—"

"Yes! I know where you are coming from, I have always known where you are coming from! But the difference between you and me is that _I_ have chosen to stay. Here. With you. I am letting you help me, and I am putting _us_ before all of the instincts that are telling me to take one of my many, still-viable covers and running to where I could never be found, and keep running until my father dies, or _I_ die. I am _trusting_ you."

Her tears finally grew too numerous to contain, and they spilled over onto her cheeks. Gibbs was almost startled to see them, even though he'd seen them building, and the farther they trailed down her skin, the more his gut twisted painfully. He forced himself to look away, lest his will break completely.

He was doing this for her, to protect her. The last thing she needed was to be dragged into a mess that he'd created.

She wouldn't believe it, wouldn't accept it, but that was the way it was.

Finally, she cleared her throat loudly and wiped her tears away with a vicious swipe of her hand. Her features hardened, and when she spoke, her voice had grown cold.

"But I should not have to beg for your trust," she declared with a brief shake of her head. She signaled to the camera, and he heard the door unlocked behind him. She stalked towards the exit, but when she came abreast of him she paused, then turned and faced up head on with a look that threatened to burn him alive.

"But know this, Jethro…" she imparted apathetically.

There was absolutely no hint of the anguish she'd let show a moment ago. Her face was a mask of cool, steely strength, her eyes hard as flint.

"If you run, I run. Either I run with you, to Mexico, to keep you alive—or I run as far and as fast as I can. No citizenship, no special agent status. I just run from everything that ever led me to you."

And then she was gone, brushing through the door beside him without another look.

He was on a precipice, and on either side he had two impossible choices.

Either path he chose, he could lose her.

Looking around the home that was supposed to be theirs, Gibbs thought of everything that had led to this. Had one single part of his past been different, he wouldn't even be facing such a dilemma.

If he'd never lost Shannon, if he'd never joined NCIS, if he'd killed Ari in Autopsy that first day, if he'd been the one to die on that rooftop instead of Kate, if Ziva had never listened to his reasoning, if she'd never overheard what Ari had said in his basement before she'd put a bullet in his head…

Ziva would never have joined his team, and in all likelihood she would have died before turning thirty.

If he hadn't lost his memories in the explosion, if she hadn't been framed for that witness' murder in Georgetown, if he hadn't come back to help her, their bond would have been limited to what had happened with Ari.

And that trust would have been obliterated when Vance had revealed that she'd done it on Mossad's orders, the hell with what Ziva claimed about her intentions.

And if Michael hadn't been a drunken fool, if she hadn't survived her last mission for Mossad, if she had let Ben-Gidon's version of events go uncontested, then she wouldn't be here to tear his convictions in two.

He wouldn't be trying to decide what meant more to him—her love or her life.

Gibbs shook his head. He was being ridiculous. The choice was simple. There was really only one choice he could make. He could live with her distrust. But he couldn't live with her death.

He'd lost Shannon. He'd lost Kelly. He'd lost Jenny.

He wouldn't lose Ziva too.

Abby hummed to herself as she worked with the final touches of the report she was to file. She'd done all she could with the evidence left behind by Agent Macy's killer, and while her death was tragic, Abby hadn't really known her. And she was certain that Gibbs would be bringing the killer in any day now. He always did after all.

It didn't matter that he had been out of sorts lately. Who wouldn't be? One hell of a skeleton had just been ripped from his closet, courtesy of Abby's own curiosity, and everything was on the verge of being revealed to not only the United States government and the Mexican authorities, but also to a ruthless drug cartel that even Ziva seemed wary of. And thinking back to her own run-in with the Renosa matriarch, Abby knew such wariness was more than likely deserved.

But everything would be okay.

Because Gibbs wasn't alone anymore. He had the team to help him, this time. He didn't have to rely on just himself anymore. He had a life-long friend in Ducky, who would bend over backwards for him. He had one kick-ass forensic scientist whose reputation was more than enough to withstand the blow a couple pieces of lost evidence would deliver.

And, most importantly perhaps, he had Ziva.

Given the conversation Abby had watched, but not listened to, over the security monitors—which were _not_ hooked up to the main system—Ziva wasn't about to let him get away with any of that typical thick-headed Gibbs stuff. She'd keep him line, and make sure he didn't get himself thrown in a Mexican prison, or worse. Because Ziva was the best of the best. She was the cream of the crop with the secret stuff.

If anyone could keep Gibbs safe, Ziva could.

And so when the phone rang, she was smiling as she turned up her music, just for the heck of it.

"Welcome to Abby's Lab of Wonder!" she answered brightly, tapping away at her keyboard. She was so busy multi-tasking—talking, typing, musicking, heck, even _thinking, _and all made possible by the two Caf-Pows she'd already had that morning—that she could barely hear the voice that emanated from the speaker on the phone.

"Abby?"

In a vague sort of awareness that only really struck her as odd because of the unusual timbre of the familiar voice, Abby realized that it was Ziva who was calling her.

"Abby, he's gone."


	54. Waiting

_A/N: Damn, I spoil you guys! I'm currently at Supply School at USMC Camp Johnson- oorah!- and I have some free time so I thought I would watch the finale online. But the internet is so frikking slow I'm going crazy. So I churned out this little ditty while I was waiting for the video to finish loading. Please understand I have only seen the first 18:10 minutes of the episode, so things may pan out differently from how I am making things out to be at this point. But anyway, here it is!_

_Enjoy, and let me know what you think. I can check email every now and then here. And now I'm off to find another, hopefully faster computer. Later! _

_P.S. There's no guarantee I will post anything else in the near future... Go ahead with the assumption I'm poofing again until August. This is Memorial Day weekend, so we all get the weekend off. This is a once in a blue lagoon type thing. :} Kudos to who ever spots that little treasure!_

* * *

There was something off about the whole thing, Tony decided. Ziva had taken her test, and Gibbs was nowhere to be found. Of anyone in the world, himself excluded, Gibbs would be the one person Tony would have thought to be happy and supportive of Ziva's endeavors. In the past months, the team leader had been the person who had shown the most pride for Ziva. Sure, McGee and Abby were happy for Ziva, but Tony doubted whether or not they truly understood and appreciated the momentous nature of the development in their friend's life. To completely denounce all ties with Israel for the sake of America- in which she had so long been merely a guest- even when tensions were ever mounting in her native country.

Tony knew that a part of her would always want to return to Israel, to work to defend her home from the new threats that seemed to emerge every single day. But she remained true to her decision, and studied and studied until she knew more about American history and politics than Tony himself did. And even as he joked that her citizenship was an outrage, he could tell that she knew how proud he truly was. No amount of joking could hide that, and the gleam in her eye told him that she acknowledged said pride.

Even so, there was a slight reservation in her gaze. She was stiff, and Tony had noticed that she refused to glance towards her left. She didn't want to see the empty desk beside her, didn't want to be reminded that her mentor and staunchest supporter was absent from these moments of pride and congratulation between team members- between family.

It made DiNozzo pause, this change in his partner. It also made him wonder. It felt like more than just a boss being missing, more than an employee being missing.

Gibbs and Ziva had always shared a thing. A weird, indescribable thing that Tony himself could barely understand. He could never be certain if it was the fellow warrior thing, or the lost family thing, or the fact that Gibbs had been the one to give Ziva a chance when all other evidence made available to everyone else said that she was just as dangerous and untrustworthy as her brother. Since then, it had become obvious that she was more dangerous than her brother, but absolutely worth every ounce of trust anyone was capable of giving her. She was loyal, though often conflicted as to whom that loyalty belonged to.

But it was now evident that her loyalty was to the US, to NCIS, to Team Gibbs. And Gibbs himself was absent from what was possibly the most important point in Ziva's life.

And that realization made Tony's gut burn in indignant anger for his partner.

Picking up the phone, Tony threw another snarky comment and Ziva, reveling in the squinty look she shot him in return. It figured though, he thought to himself as he started typing some random number he would shortly be hanging up on in a few minutes.

Things between him and Ziva regained some semblance of normality only when Gibbs had taken it upon himself to cause them both worry and pain. It really was just like Mexico all over again.

Gibbs mirrored Ziva's movements as she repositioned herself in the netting.

He'd been staring at her but talking to Tony, who was looking at him with just as much intensity as his partner. But Gibbs wasn't concerned about Tony. He was concerned about Ziva, her last words to him echoing in his mind as he tried to see something beyond the walls that had been put up in her uncharacteristically cool brown eyes. She was still here, not disappeared, which was some comfort, but it was clear that she had divorced herself from him.

Divorce. The word sent ice through Gibbs' chest.

They weren't married, not in the legal or political sense, but the honest truth was that none of that mattered. He loved her more than he'd loved any of his ex-wives. The fact that he HADN't jumped immediately into a marriage with her was proof enough of that. And now he was faced with the idea that his fourth ex-wife, whom he hadn't even had a chance to marry yet, was sitting across from him scared him more than the daunting task that now lay before him.

But the reminder of said task reminded him of why he had made that particular sacrifice.

Ex-wife Ziva was daunting, frightening, even heart-breaking, but broken, bloody, bullet-through-the-head Ziva was absolutely terrifying. He would do everything and anything in or outside his power to ensure that he was never ever faced with that possibility again.

He fired off something unintelligible, finally tearing his eyes from Ziva's shielded gaze. She had yet to speak to him, and he doubted she would be doing so in the near future. She had been glued to Tony's side since he'd come to meet them on the plane. And by the hard look DiNozzo was peggin him with, Gibbs knew that Tony was ready to step up once more to protect the team. And Ziva was part of that team.

Tony would protect her, and for now, that would have to be enough.


	55. Facing the Consequences

A/N: All right. Well, here is my reaction to the finale. I watched it, and was heartbroken by how wrong I was about the damn ending. I'd hoped for happiness, they gave us the Tramp and one b**** of a cliffie in regards to Daddy Gibbs. Oh well.

I have another chapter in the works for this, but I'm not sure I'm going to post it. I might wait until the premiere to see where it goes. Or, OR... I could post it, and then use it as a spring board for one of my other stories that needed a starting point. I'm tempted... But I'll leave it to you. One or two new chapters on this (possibly screwing me over for the premiere) or leave as is and secure canon-ness?

Also, I got nominated for a competition... My Fairytale Romance fic... Not sure how, not sure why... but thanks! It totally made my week when I saw that nomination email. It was a glaring reminder that I needed to thank all my readers, who are waiting ever so patiently for my slow, Marine Corps butt to update my fics.

So, thanks!

And enjoy, as always!

-CSIGurlie07

* * *

When Gibbs opened the door, he knew in his gut that the world as he knew it was at the edge of a precipice.

The house was silent, and dark save for the single lamp that lit up the living room. He'd just gotten back from banging on Ziva's door for an hour, hoping beyond hope she would let him explain—though to explain what he wasn't sure. He'd messed up, more grievously than he ever had in the past, and he knew it. There was no excuse, no valid reason for him to have done what he did. He'd been concerned only for her safety, but she'd shown him earlier exactly what she'd thought of that reasoning.

So when he found her sitting at his flimsy card table, the books Hart had left behind spread in front of her, his heart sank with how broken she seemed, and the knowledge that he had been the one to cause it.

Her head was bowed slightly, as though she hadn't heard him enter. But when her gaze finally lifted to meet his, he knew she was fully aware- of everything. And he didn't have a leg to stand on when it came to trying to explain himself.

He was in serious trouble- not only that, _they_ were in trouble. And that knowledge sent icy fear through his veins.

"Ziva-"

"Don't." Her low voice cut through the empty house. "Don't even..." She couldn't find the words to finish, and it was the only indication that she wasn't so completely calm as her composure suggested. But she hadn't run yet, as she'd promised to. She was still here, so there was still hope, no matter how upset she was in this moment. And Gibbs held onto that mantra like a lifeline- she's still here.

"You weren't there," she continued, her fists clenching at her sides. "Abby was there, McGee was there. Even Vance was there. But _you_... you weren't."

"Ziva-"

"You. Weren't. _There_."

Any attempt to explain himself was immediately shut down by the intensity of Ziva's words. Her tone was biting, but Gibbs could hear the heartbreak behind it. She was in turmoil, hurt and confused, and he was lucky that she had found it within herself to even come to him tonight.

"I jumped through the ridiculous bureaucratic hoops, learned more about this country than even you know, a _Marine_, and cut off all ties to my homeland, all to ensure that I would stay here, with _you_, free of my father's interference." Brown eyes burned into his. "And you do not even have the decency to show up."

Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, but she stood menacingly, cutting hims off before he could even start.

"But even then, as I was standing there, alone, I was still naive enough to be worried. While I was renouncing my status as an Israeli I was terrified that the Renosa cartel had caught up to you. Because I was silly enough to believe that only serious bodily harm or death would be the only thing to keep you from being there today."

She took a few steps forward, coming abreast of the table she had just been sitting behind.

"And then, and _then_, when I did not hear from you the entire day, I was convinced that you truly were dead. But when I come here to check on you, I find_ this_."

Her hand found one of the books the attorney had left behind, and lifted it in a white-knuckled grip.

"Nothing happened with her, Ziva."

"Do not insult me any further than you already have. I know you hold no affection for that woman. I simply do not understand how a _lawyer _for whom you have only shown mild contempt for in the past could keep you from being there for me. After everything else you did, after going to Mexico by yourself, without telling me- essentially informing me that my fears and my concerns and my desire to keep you safe meant less than dirt to you- you miss the ceremony for _her. _And apparently, she feels more comfortable in this house- this home you promised would be _ours_- that she feels entitled to drop by any time she feels like it..."

She shook her head, unable to wrap her mind around it even as she spoke the words.

"It still is ours-"

"Yes, yes, as you said so many times before. Just as you said you trusted me, would be waiting for me." She exhaled sharply. "Well, I was ready, Jethro. Today, when I took that oath, even through my misplaced concern for you, I was ready to come home." Her voice dropped an octave. "And when I _did_ come home tonight- though under much different circumstances than I'd intended- you weren't here. You weren't waiting."

Her voice nearly broke into a sob, but she managed to maintain her bearing, unwilling to let him see any of the distress he knew her to be in. She kept her composure, even as Gibbs' threatened to crumble.

"Well," she continued, "neither am I. Not anymore. I am done waiting. I no longer have the time or the strength to wait for you to let me in. You can keep your secrets, but I refuse to linger in the periphery of your life. I deserve more than being half-in and half-out of everything, Jethro. I am done."

She tossed the offending book away, and swept her keys from the tabletop. With quick, purposeful strides, she tried to brush past him, but his hand shot out and gripped her arm tightly in an unthinking attempt to keep her there, with him. But his hand let go when she tensed and wrenched her arm away.

"Please, Ziva," he pleaded. "Hold on a damn second. Don't I get to say anything?"

"No, Jethro!" she spat angrily, her eyes smoldering dangerously. "No! Your actions have said more than any words you have for me now. I am done holding onto someone who does not want to be held onto. I am done waiting for the trust of a man who has forgotten how to give it. I have had enough."

"Dammit, Ziva, she threatened to kill you! And the team and my father and my damn mother-in-law."

"Oh, you mean the mother-in-law you ruined a case for so that she would not have to pay the consequences of her actions? I find it difficult to believe that you are actually concerned for her- she did have a hand in killing someone, and we all know how you feel about people like that- what goes around comes around, yes? That is how you justified her killing that man. You deliberately let your mother-in-law, his killer, go free as a result of that philosophy, yes?"

"Ziva-"

"And was this threat against her life, and _my_ life, issued before or after you went to Mexico?" she asked, not giving him time to interject. "Was it before or after I told you I could not handle the secrets and mistrust? Was it before or after you made the decision to throw everything away?"

"I wasn't going to let Bell get his hands on you," Gibbs growled, anger rearing its ugly head.

"So I am just a damsel in distress, then? Those floozies Tony loves to watch in his movies who are incapable of helping themselves, protecting themselves, and must wait for their knights in shining armor? I am capable of protecting myself, and of protecting you. You know that- you are simply an idiot for trying to ignore it. The only reason I was ever, for once in my life, the damsel in distress was all the secrets. The secrets, the lies, everything you seem unable to let go of... they all put me in that desert, ready to die. And I told you before you ran to Mexico that I was not ever going to go there again. Not even for you."

"Ziva-"

"Enough. Just stop. I do not want to hear any more. I told you all of this in Abby's lab, when I was still foolish enough to think you might actually accept my help. But you made your decision, and now we must both live with the consequences. To be completely honest, I am relieved to finally know where I stand with you."

The torment in her eyes was suddenly tamped out by the severe opacity of an angry wariness he had not seen in her since Ari was still alive. And just as she had been then, it was as if she were looking upon a stranger, and that bit into his soul more sharply than any rebuke she could have offered. There was no reproach, none of the visible fire he had come to associate with her. She had shut herself off completely.

Finally, without another word, she brushed past him, and this time she was able to grasp the doorknob before Gibbs could recover his senses.

"Where will you go?"

The question came out plaintive, betraying his need for her to remain with him. If not in his house, their house, then in America, in DC. If she disappeared as she had promised- he didn't even want to consider that option.

"Too many people have sacrificed to get me this citizenship, and the full NCIS Special Agent status that comes with it. I cannot throw it away." She regarded him with a cold look. "But I assure you that if I had not taken that test, and if I had not taken that oath today, I would already be gone. And you would have never heard from me again." Her eyes left him once more, dismissing him as she opened the door to look out at the darkening night.

Her final words drifted over her shoulder with heartbreaking professionalism.

"I will be at NCIS at 0700 sharp."

And with that, the door shut softly behind her, though she might as well have slammed it for the shattering it wreaked on Gibbs' world. And suddenly, he was completely and utterly alone.

His fingers drifted over the small slip of paper he had tucked into his pocket, the paper on which he'd so recently scribbled one more rule.

_Sometimes, you're wrong._

Well, he was wrong this time, in every sense of the word. He was wrong, and he knew it, was ready to admit it. But there was no one left to tell.

She was gone.


	56. Of Fights and Flaming Branches

_A/N: The muse has returned! Maybe it was the episode "Dead Air" that showed tonight. My official favorite of the season, which is good cuz I was starting to get disappointed with the quality- and that takes a lot for me to admit. But nonetheless, I have ideas pending for each episode that's aired so far, tonight included. So I'm putting out a BOLO- more chapters on the way._

_Now on with the show, starting with the season premiere!_

_P.S. Thanks for sticking with me! I know it's been long in coming! But never fear, the muse is here!  
_

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"Where's the missus?" Mike Frank's gravelly voice was familiar and a welcome sound. The crotchety old man had been missing too long for anyone's liking.

Jackson eyed him for a moment, but ultimately shrugged.

"Ziva has been staying at her own place while I've been here," Jackson answered. "Something about not wanting to crowd the place."

Franks snorted. "That little thing wouldn't be able to crowd the place if it was a motel closet. Especially not where Probie's concerned."

Jackson's features pulled into a grimace. "You've been out of the loop a while, Agent Franks…"

He might have shared more, but before he could the front door slammed open, making both men jump in surprise, nerves jangling.

"Let go of me, Gibbs!"

"No!"

The familiar but deafening voices filled the quiet house, alerting both Franks and Jackson to the arrival of their favorite happy couple. But to the sound of things, the couple was less than happy with each other.

"Gibbs, this is ridiculous! I do _not _need protection—"

"I don't care what you think, Ziva! She's here, and she's out for blood! Everyone else has protection, and they've stopped protesting by now, even Abby! You got a reprieve in Miami, but here you play by my rules, so man up and just—"

"If you tell me to behave, Gibbs, I swear to God I will make you regret it." Ziva's voice was suddenly low and menacing. Jackson shot a look towards Franks, who was grinning in appreciation of the new American's spirit, even as Gibbs refused to let it go.

"Just get in the damn house already!"

There was a moment of relative quiet as the two agents entered the house, but then there was a flurry of movement, and a sharp protest of pain. "Ow! Jesus, Ziva!"

"I already warned you to unhand me, Gibbs. Perhaps you should follow your own instructions and _do as you're told_." It was a fair impression of Gibbs' voice, and Franks chuckled audibly. The movement in the foyer ceased, and then Ziva entered the kitchen, her expression curious rather than irritated. The only evidence that there had been any kind of altercation was when Gibbs entered on her heels, rolling his shoulder with a grimace of pain.

"Mike!" Ziva greeted cheerfully. Franks gave her a broad grin, and moved to greet her. They embraced, and Ziva accepted a kiss on the cheek. "I am glad to see you are safe. Leyla and the baby?"

"Never in danger. Out of Mexico before you could say Bob's your uncle."

Ziva's brow furrowed. "I have do not have an uncle named Bob."

"Never mind," Franks dismissed it. He looked her up and down. "Tan looks good."

Ziva beamed. "Thank you. I was in Miami for a couple of weeks, trying to flush out some leads with the _cubanos_." She shrugged. "Turns out my presence was unnecessary."

"At least you're here now," Franks responded. "We could use your talents."

Ziva shook her head. "Oh, no, I am not staying."

"The hell you aren't," Gibbs interrupted.

Ziva rolled her eyes, but did not turn to face him. "I am _not_ staying here, Gibbs."

Jackson could help but notice she refused to use his son's given name. It was sharp reminder that his life was not the only one out of whack.

"I am going home, and I am going to say hello to my dog, and then I am going to have a nice relaxing night on my own."

"You know you can't do that."

"_You_ know you cannot stop me." Giving the older men a congenial smile, the tension between her and her boss was almost palpable. "It is good to see you both again, but it is time for me to go home."

Franks and Jackson looked to Gibbs, who looked fit to burst. "Agent David," he said tersely. "Basement, now, a word." It was not a request but an order, and one that Ziva obeyed with a begrudging tilt of the head.

She moved on silent feet to the basement stair, Gibbs following her closely. They descended the stair, and it wasn't until they hit the stone of the unfinished basement floor that their hushed voices drifted up to the elder men. With mutual looks of casual disinterest, they both moved silently to the door of the basement, and listened to the terse conversation happening below.

"Why the hell are you fighting me on this?" Gibbs asked her, his hushed voice noticeably pissed. "Would it really kill you to stay here for a couple nights until this blows over?"

"Yes, actually, it would," came the equally miffed reply. "I do not live here, Gibbs, I have not for some time. I do not belong here, not when I would be just as safe in my own home. I am not helpless, and Chaka is more than enough back-up."

"No offense, Ziva, but not even your damn guard dog will be enough to dissuade Paloma Reynosa," Gibbs countered. "Will you just trust me on this?"

In an instant, the two men listening at the top of the stairs knew it had been the wrong thing to say. The words seemed innocuous, but the icy silence that sent chills down their spines told them that there was more to them than they knew.

"No," Ziva answered, her voice detached and cold. "I will not _just trust_ _you_." Jackson could almost see the frigid glare she was sending his son's way. "And you are a fool to ask it."

And with that, the sound of Ziva coming up the stairs could be heard. There was no time for the men to scramble away before she was brushing past them. Without giving them so much as a sideways glance, she threw them a parting shot over her shoulder. "Enjoy the show, gentlemen?"

Before they could even try to act chastised, she was out of sight, with only the echoing slam of the front door to mark her exit. Gibbs exited the basement a moment later, looking just as irritated as Ziva had. Jackson could tell by the set of his son's shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw, that Leroy was both worried and upset.

He followed the agent into the family room, leaving Mike in the kitchen. He found his son staring out the front window, as though he would be able to see Paloma sneaking around with his own two eyes. But as he got closer, he realized his son wasn't looking at much of anything. Instead, it was apparent that his attention was elsewhere, no doubt with the woman who had just stormed from the house.

"You know you could've told her you needed her help in protecting me," he commented softly. "She wouldn't have said no to that."

"This is between me and her, Pop. No use dragging you into it." He sighed. "Besides, it wouldn't be right trying to manipulate her that way."

"That's mighty chivalrous, son, but who cares as long as she's safe?"

"She's not mine to take of anymore, Pop. She won't let me…"

Jackson glanced at him in incredulity. "And whose fault is that?"

"She left _me_, Pop—"

"And you let her." Jackson's voice was hard. "You two have things to work out, and I know that me being here doesn't make it any easier to get her alone. But you can't let this fester, son, you have to fix it."

Jackson watched his boy close his eyes, and for the first time in many, many years saw guilt and regret darken his features. Leroy had always been so sure of himself, so deeply entrenched in his own convictions that it sometime seemed as though he thought himself infallible.

But there were moments, like the one now staring Jackson in the face, that told him that his son was anything but.

Whatever had caused this rift between Leroy and Ziva rested squarely on his son's shoulders.

And surprisingly enough, Jackson was content enough with that small, almost miniscule tidbit of information. Because it meant that Leroy knew what the problem was, and in time, he would eventually get around to fixing it. If not for Paloma, Jackson reasoned, it would have already been fixed.

"I will," Leroy said softly, his gaze not breaking away from the dark window.

"And you better do it soon," Jackson added. At this, blue eyes finally turned to him, expressionless. "She's a beautiful young woman who wants to be happy, Leroy. You wait too long, and someone is gonna snatch her up like the catch she is."

Leroy sighed, turning back to the window. "I know, Pop. But I can't do anything until Paloma's dead."

The words were hard and definite, painfully blunt in its honesty. A part of Jackson figured he should be shocked or repulsed by the statement.

But he wasn't.

He couldn't even claim he disapproved. He'd only seen the woman once, but the damage she'd manage to wreak on his family had neared catastrophic level—he had a sinking suspicion that she was responsible for the rift between his son and the woman Jackson had hoped would become his daughter, whether directly or indirectly.

He understood now. He understood how his son could do what he did, how he could kill the targets with faces.

Because for the first time, he wished he'd had a chance to finally fire that rifle.

He wished he'd ended all this right then and there in Stillwater.

The shattered remnants of the general store crunched underneath Gibbs' shoes as he began to sweep the broken glass across the cement floor. The windows had already been boarded up, but Gibbs already had new panes of glass ready and waiting to be installed. He'd made sure they'd been inscribed with the same design the original windows had had. The only difference between the old and new—though no one but he would know—was the bullet resistance Gibbs had splurged for in the new.

But first they had to clear the debris from the floor, and they made small talk as they worked. The conversation was deliberately light—neither had the energy or desire to delve into matters unrelated to the upkeep of the store. The only break in the expected status quo came when a soft voice issued from the open doorway.

"Need another set of hands?"

Both Gibbses looked up in surprise to see a slender figure silhouetted in the late morning sun, clad in jeans and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, ready to work.

"Ziva!" Jackson's features broke into a welcoming smile. "C'mon in!" She obliged with smooth steps that were nearly silent on the newly cleared floor. Gibbs' gaze followed her, and instantly noticed the small, tentative smile on her lips. Her eyes only met his once, and only for a split second before they danced away again.

"I heard you were going to be making repairs this weekend, and I thought I might be able to lend a hand," she said by way of explanation, though the twinkle in Jackson's eyes were proof enough she didn't need one.

"Well, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth," the elder Gibbs replied heartily. When Ziva's brow crinkled in confusion, he continued. "It's a figure of speech my dear, meaning you're welcome here any time."

Ziva smiled, and not for the first Gibbs wished it was for him. "Well thank you then, Jackson. But today I am afraid I am to be a work horse, gift or no. Where do you need me?"

Jackson shot a look to his son, but once he saw the tension in the woman's shoulders, he knew he couldn't play matchmaker today. "How about right here with me? You can help me clean up until Jethro's ready to put in the new window."

Ziva moved to oblige, picking up a broom, and for a brief moment father and son shared a look. Jackson's reminded his son that Paloma was now dead, but Jethro's said it was too soon. Moving too quickly would only be like trying to drive an eighteen wheeler into a three foot thick brick wall. He might be able to get through to her, but not without heavy damage to both parties.

"So, Ziva, you familiar with horses?" Jackson asked conversationally, turning to resume his sweeping and dropping the subject for now.

"I am," came the succinct reply. "I learned to ride as a child, and I used to spend my summers with my uncle." When Jackson looked blankly at her, she added, "He bred Arabians."

"Arabians, eh? Those are some spirited creatures right there…"

Gibbs only half listened to the idle conversation. He knew all about this—how her uncle died eight years ago from natural causes and that his wife's brother now ran the family business. He used to wonder what it'd be like if raising horses had been Ziva's family trade, rather than Mossad, but he learned long ago not to get lost down that line of questioning. Because the bottom line was, if it had been, he probably would never have met her.

And that was a reality he didn't want to consider.

But as he listened to the background hum of their conversation as he worked, his attention did not focus on the problem it should have been on. He didn't wonder how to win her back, like he should have been. After all, Paloma was now dead, and he could now devote himself to the cause. But no. Instead his mind was drawn back to Vance's office, and the mysterious phone call he had only briefly overheard.

Why was Vance talking to Eli David?

The more he tried to dismiss his concern, the more he couldn't let it go. As he worked, his mind went over every possible scenario. The most obvious one was Ziva—he wouldn't put it past Eli to try and weasel her back to Israel. But the citizenship was permanent, as was her employment at NCIS; he'd personally checked them himself. There was no legal or professional way Eli could recall Ziva to Mossad, and Vance wouldn't allow Eli to engage in more unsavory methods to retrieve his daughter.

So then what else could it be? Just the idea of David once again being in contact with NCIS made him wary, and the fact that Vance felt he needed to hide it from him was a bigger red flag. Something was going down, and he was once again out of the loop. It all felt sickly familiar to the situation he'd been left with after Jenny died, and he refused to go through that again. Lee and Langer notwithstanding, he'd been left with a depressed and angry scientist, a melancholy agent afloat, and the inability to do anything more than stare at a still image of Ziva lying bleeding and disoriented on an ambulance stretcher.

No. He wasn't going to go through that again.

It gnawed at him the entire day, and was still nagging at him when the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving them with an excuse to call it a day. He leaned up against the brand new window while Jackson shuffled into the back to find them some beers, and he surveyed the scene with an approving gaze. They'd replaced some of the shelves, and spackled the walls before putting on a fresh coat of paint. Jackson and Ziva had done an excellent job of cleaning up, and Jethro could almost claim it was as clean as it had been when his mom was alive.

But when Ziva came to lean on the wall beside him, he didn't tell her that.

"I am glad I came here," she said softly, her voice hesitant, forced. "You boys would have been here all weekend had I not come to your rescue."

"Yeah," he answered flatly, tension twisting his gut. "I was planning on staying here all weekend anyway."

Her head dipped as she stared at her hands, which still held the Windex and paper towels she'd been using a moment ago. "Well," she replied, her tone turning defensive, "now you can actually visit with your father, rather than simply working for him."

And then, before he could censor them, the words spilled from his lips like poison.

"Speaking of fathers… heard from yours recently?"

Her head flew up, brown eyes flashing dangerously, and Gibbs knew it'd been the wrong thing to say.

"What do you mean?"

But now he was in too deep, and he couldn't let it go. "I mean, have you talked to your father recently."

Ziva's shoulders squared defensively, and she pushed away from the wall, turning to face him head on. "Why on Earth would you ask that?"

Her tone was full of hurt and anger and resentment, and Gibbs automatically reacted. His voice softened, and he stepped towards her, into her space, fixing her with a steady gaze of his own.

"Because," he answered his words now low enough that Jackson couldn't have heard even if he tried, "he called Vance a couple days ago, and Leon refused to take the call while I was in the office."

"And you automatically assume that _I_ would know what the call was about?" she accused, her voice just as hushed, but no less indignant. "You think I would know about something like that and not tell you?"

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off angrily, her temper growing.

"Well, it would not be the first time, right? Is that what you think?" He didn't answer. "After everything that has happened, you think I would make that kind of mistake again? Was the citizenship not enough to prove where my loyalties now lie?"

She paused then, before her lips curled into a mirthless smirk. "Oh that's right. You may actually _not_ realize the significance of the ceremony, because _you weren't there_!"

It was now her turn to step into his space, the intensity of her muted fury almost forcing to take a step back. Almost.

"Well let me remind you that while you were off playing cops and murderers in Mexico, I was jumping through bureaucratic hoops to finally divorce myself from my father once and for all. And while you were blowing off the ceremony to spend some quality time with the devil's advocate, _I _was swearing an oath of fealty to this country and its citizens."

She glared at him, no longer caring if her voice was carrying. Vaguely he wondered how long she had been waiting to finally confront him about everything, but more acutely he realized that he was getting off lucky.

She hadn't even tried to hit him yet, which was more than he could say for any of his ex-wives, though he knew that he deserved more in this instance than he ever did with them.

But perhaps the pain and betrayal in her eyes was more of a weapon than anything else she could have dealt him physically. It hurt his heart to see it, but the damage was done, and he couldn't take it back. And when her expression crumbled into a mask of hurt, he felt it all the way to the core of his being.

"How_ dare _you doubt me now."

Her voice was suddenly gravelly with unshed tears, but as quickly as it had come it vanished again, along with the pain in her features. Her expression smoothed, until she looked at him with distant reproach. With a dismissive shake of her head, she shoved the window cleaner and towel into his chest, which he caught in reflex.

"You can take your insecurities up with Vance," she stated bluntly.

Then she turned on her heel and marched out of the store, her head bowed for the few seconds he could see her before she disappeared around the corner.

With a silent moan Gibbs closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he gave himself a mental kick in the pants.

What was wrong with him? He'd been known to put his foot in it before, but this time, he'd known before he'd even started talking what the outcome had been. But still, he'd been unable to stop himself. And all of that after he'd promised his father—and himself—that he would do whatever he could to make things right.

All he'd done was make things worse.

A shuffled step to his right told him Jackson had returned. Gibbs opened his eyes to find his father looking at him with pity and understanding, and only a hint of disappointment. In his hands he held three bottles of beer.

Wordlessly, the third bottle was deposited on the window sill, as the two men took up a seat on either side of it. For a few long moments the store was silent while they sipped their beers. But finally, it was Jackson who broke the quiet.

"Well, son, I gotta say... You sure know how to torch an olive branch."


	57. Long Ride Home Pt 1

Ziva reached over her desk to grab her keys, but when she tried to straighten once more, she could not help but freeze with a hiss of pain. A flash of agony shot up her spine and settled in her shoulders as she hesitated, unable to move again until it faded to a dull ache.

With a silent curse she recalled the blow that had cracked her ribs and had sent her flying into the metal shelving that lined the store's walls. Actually, flying was perhaps too graceful a term for it. She had staggered back, caught off-guard in the crowning moment of glory as queen of the complacent. She knew better than to underestimate her elders… Now she knew better than to underestimate even American elders.

Once again she congratulated herself for at least making the wise decision of waiting to leave until everyone else had gone. She had not wanted to explain the stiffness in her movements, the wince in her eyes as the hurt settled into her bones. Having Ducky know was embarrassing enough—she did not want the others to know as well. Luckily, the case was not yet solved; it was easy to claim she had long-shot lead to track down to justify her late hours.

Finally straightening once more, she grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. Now there was only the familiar pressure of her damaged ribs and the ache in her shoulder blades… Nothing she couldn't push to the back of her mind. She flipped her desk lamp off and headed for the elevator, eager to get in her car, get home, and get medicated.

She was halfway to the elevator when she realized the prescription Ducky had given her for pain killers was safely tucked away in her desk drawer.

With a sigh she turned back, and made her way back to her desk. And of course, she was just tall enough to need to bend down to reach into her drawer to get the little white slip of paper. And again, the pain in her back flared when she tried to stand upright again.

This time, her hand slammed onto her desk to prevent her knees from buckling.

The pain had almost faded when an unexpected warmth pressed against her side, startling her enough to reflexive turn in defense. This time, it was her ribs that protested, and her movement was halted mid-turn. Familiar hands braced her, and she cursed herself for her oversight.

"You okay?" a tender voice asked in concern, his words low enough that only she could hear.

His tone was soft and intimate, but gratitude quickly gave way to self-chastisement for not realizing that Jethro Gibbs would not have left the office before she did. She had not seen him since McGee and Tony had left, but she should have known better.

And now he had witnessed her in her weakest state since Somalia.

Just perfect.

"I'm fine," she answered finally, pulling away from him. The pain was still prominent, but she'd rather deal with that than let him see her struggling.

"You don't look fine," he countered bluntly. She usually appreciated his candor, but tonight her patience was already taxed, and she resented his ability to see through her albeit thin façade.

She discreetly pocketed the prescription note, and swiftly nudged the drawer home with her leg before brushing past him.

"It's nothing," she insisted. "I will see you tomorrow, Gibbs."

Thankfully, she didn't have to wait long for the elevator to open up, and she was able to hide within its confines as the doors closed. Once she was completely shielded from his view, she allowed herself to lean against the metal wall, to take some of the pressure off her increasingly aching back. Ducky told her to expect it to feel worse before it felt better, but that advice had done little to stave off her impending bad mood.

And to make matters worse, she seemed to be getting a migraine as well.

The elevator opened up onto the parking deck, and with the most enthusiasm she could muster she propelled herself from the metal box, taking short, careful towards her waiting car. But even with her careful steps, the pain returned halfway there, the muscles in her back clenching in agony.

Her hand lifted to brace herself against the concrete pillar next to her as she let her head bow against the pain. Her eyes clenched tightly as she rode it out, even as she forced herself to keep taking short breaths past the pain in her ribs.

This time, the pain was still going full-throttle when his hands reappeared, cutting through the haze like a knife. An isolated part of her mind wondered how he could have reached the garage so quickly, but did not bother to think too long about it. She could not quite bring herself to care.

"Come on," he said, his voice just as soft as it had been in the squad room. His hand clasped her free one, while his other rested gently on her hip. "I'll take you home."

For a long moment, she hesitated, neither pulling away nor accepting the support he was offering. Part of it was the pain making her sluggish, but the other part was her mind telling her heart to pull it together. She didn't need him.

"You're in no shape to drive," he pointed out, his tone unaccusing. "Let me get you home."

It was in that moment her mind shut up, recognizing his logic, and her body took over. Trusting him to take her weight, she pressed herself as best she could against him, and he did the rest. He closed the gap, and his grip on her tightened only enough to keep her upright, in case her legs decided to give out. He didn't trust them not to, and neither did she, but they managed to make it to the car without incident.

He helped her into the passenger seat, even buckling her in so that she wouldn't have to strain her ribs to do so herself. He then climbed behind the wheel, and pulled out of the garage with more care than she'd ever seen him do before. Obviously, he was not about to risk her more harm by throwing the car around hairpin turns at breakneck speeds. The gentle movements of the car almost lulled her into a light sleep, and it was a few minutes before she realized he was not taking the usual route to her apartment.

Suddenly, every sense was on high alert, and the fading pain was once again thrust into the distant corner of her mind. It was a trick she had learned in Somalia, and it allowed her to think clearly now.

"Where are we going?" she demanded sharply.

He barely spared her a glance. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

Angry shock stole over her. "No, you most certainly are not."

"You can barely stand, Ziver. You can tell me you're fine and it's nothing all you want, but the fact you couldn't make it to your car is proof enough you're a godawful liar."

"I am not going to the hospital," she insisted. "Now turn around and take me home like you said you would."

"I will. Once you've been checked out by a doctor."

She rolled her eyes. "I have already seen a doctor, Gibbs. He said I will be fine as long as I rest. Now, please, take me home so I may do so."

He eyed her suspiciously. "Ducky?"

"Who else?" she sniped back, her patience wearing thin. When it was obvious he did not quite believe her, she gave a sigh of exasperation and dug the prescription slip out of her pocket. "Here," she said stiffly, shoving it at him. She let aggravation tinge her voice, rather than let him see her hurt at being the victim of suspicions once again. "Since you obviously do not trust me. That is his signature. I'm sure he would not mind you giving him a call if you feel it necessary."

He looked at the slip, and then back at her. Finally, he handed it back to her before pulling a U-turn.

"Fine," he acquiesced. "We're going to the pharmacy, and _then_ I'm taking you home."

"Fine," she parroted, turning her attention to the blurred view outside her window. Her headache was getting worse, and she shut her eyes in an attempt to stave off the growing discomfort. A moment later, she felt them pulling to a stop, and she opened her eyes to snap at him for pulling to the side of the road—only to realize they were already at the pharmacy.

She must have fallen asleep, she realized.

Before she could even process what was happening, Gibbs had plucked the prescription from her lax fingers and unbuckled his seat belt.

"Stay here," he ordered firmly, before disappearing with a slam of his door. Her gaze followed him into the store, wondering where he expected her to go. Her back was just starting to get accustomed to sitting, and she knew that standing was going to be a challenge.

But it was one that was going to wait for a few more minutes at least.

A few minutes later Gibbs returned, and he tossed a rattling bottle of pills into her lap.

"That's some pretty heavy stuff," he pointed out as he pulled the car away from the curb and back onto the road.

She shrugged, opting for a silent response as she twisted the cap open and shook a tablet into her palm before swallowing it dry. Even if she knew how to respond to a comment like that, her migraine was more than enough discouragement to refrain from speaking. Luckily, he let it go, and instead focused on the road.

Ducky had been right when he said the pills would kick in quickly, because only a few minutes later the pain faded completely and she was finally able to fully relax. Unfortunately, it also made her mind cloudy, and her thoughts sluggish. That, combined with the rocking of the car, made it impossible for her to keep her eyes open.

The next time she opened her eyes, Gibbs already had her in his arms, ready to carry her up the stairs to her apartment.

"Put me down," she said as sharply as she could. She tried to push away from him, and he quickly put her on her feet before she could fall from his arms. "I can walk just fine on my own," she declared, though even to her ears her words seemed slurred. She hoped it was just the spider webs in her head that made her sound that way.

"All right," he conceded. "So long as you let me make sure you get up to your place okay, you can walk as much as you want."

She gave an undignified snort. "I doubt you would respect my wishes if I told you to leave, so you can do whatever you damn well please."

The obscenity slipped past her lips before she realized she had said it, and she wondered if she looked as surprised as he did at the uncharacteristic profanity. It sounded foreign even to her own ears, and she quickly came to the decision that even though she may be an American citizen, there were some American turns of phrase she would never enjoy using. Some of them simply did not sound right, and this was one of them.

The first and last time she would use that word, she affirmed with a nod of her head as she turned to enter her building.

She got herself to her door all right, and though Gibbs seemed a little apprehensive about coming home to a rambunctious dog, she was unsurprised to see Chaka sitting a few feet from the door, his whole body quivering with excitement as he forced himself to remain sitting. His tail swished quietly across the hardwood floor, and when she gave the release command, he scampered over to give her an overdue welcome.

Gibbs was tense, but Chaka was more the gentle, slowing his charge before he slammed into her full force. Most days he would jump up to greet her, or push obnoxiously against her legs, but tonight he seemed to sense her injury, because he simply whuffled her palm with an inquisitive nose before investigating Gibbs.

She moved to the kitchen while the boys said hello, and robotically began to go through the motions of feeding the dog. But before she could absently bend over to heft a scoop of kibble into Chaka's bowl, Gibbs' touch stayed her hand.

"I'll take care of the mutt," he said carefully. She looked at him for a long moment, trying to muddle through what he was saying. "Go lay down," he prompted. He motioned to the kibble and the dog who had come to join them. "I'll feed Chaka."

Finally, she gave a short nod. "M'kay," was all she could offer, before she moved on wooden feet towards the bedroom.

She did not know if she made it to the bed before her world faded into welcome darkness.


	58. Long Ride Home Pt 2

Gibbs did more than just feed the dog. He made sure it had water, and even took it out for a short walk around the building. But as soon as he released the mutt from the leash afterwards, the dog padded off without a backwards glance, obviously intent on rejoining its master in the bedroom. Gibbs knew from before that she let the dog sleep on the bed with her, and he supposed tonight would be no different.

For a moment, he worried the dog might inadvertently hurt her, but when he remembered how docile it had been when they'd come into the apartment, he allowed the concern to fade. The dog would probably be more gentle than even he had been.

Now that he was left alone in the dark of her living room, Gibbs allowed himself to take a moment.

He'd been surprised when the old man had gotten the drop on her that afternoon, but he hadn't expected anything like this… She hadn't given any indication she'd been hurt, but that in itself was hardly out of character. After all, a lifetime of hiding injury from prying eyes was a difficult habit to break—he should know.

But what hurt the most was the knowledge that a few short months ago, he'd been one of the few people she let inside those walls, one of the few she allowed to see her at anything less than her best. But now, once again, he was on the outside looking in, unable to do anything to help her.

With the bitter taste of guilt and remorse on his tongue, Gibbs snatched up the pill bottle, and once more studied the label. The name of the narcotic was unimportant—it was the side effects that had him concerned.

Some he doubted would be a problem, such as the tinnitus, bleeding, and itching, but this stuff was notorious for its ability to cause drowsiness and lightheadedness. The idea of Ziva trying to take care of herself while being so incapacitated, both by pain and now by the medication, didn't sit right with him.

Well, he never promised he would leave once he got her home, did he?

On silent feet he moved to peek into the bedroom, to make sure she had made it to bed. It was immediately evident that she had done so just barely before the meds had fully kicked in. She was still fully clothed, boots and jacket included, and her lower legs hung off the side of the bed as if she had simply lain over once she managed to sit down.

Whatever damage she had taken during the fight, it must have kicked her ass for her to even consent to taking such strong medication. She never liked using painkillers, for this very reason. She said once she didn't like feeling so helpless, so out of it that she could barely see straight, and now he realized that she wasn't kidding. Oddly enough, if she used the stuff more often, they might not have had as much of an effect on her now.

For a few long moments, Gibbs simply stared at her eerily still form.

It was unsettling, to see her so unmoving. He'd gotten used to her being active, always on the move, always doing _something_. Even the nights he spent watching her sleep—in those short months before she moved out of the house—she'd had an air of constant vigilance about her.

But that shield of wariness had collapsed when she had tonight, and she was left looking vulnerable and alone as the medication worked its way through her system. His gut twisted, churning with the desire to do something more than just stand there, watching her. But the thought of her waking up just long enough to push him away again kept him where he was.

Besides, there wasn't much he could do when he didn't really understand what her injuries were.

Well, he thought to himself, stealthily backing out of the bedroom and closing the door behind him, there was one person who could tell him what the hell happened.

With short brisk strides he paced the living room as he punched the speed dial on his cell. One short phone call later, he'd been told all he wanted to know and more.

The altercation with Nicholas Mason had not only bruised her ribs, but her spill into the shelves had caused enough swelling to pinch some of the nerves around her spine. Her lower back had taken the brunt of the damage, which accounted for the majority of her pain. But Ducky assured him the damage was temporary, and that at the moment sleep was the best cure for her.

He received Ducky's brief set of instructions with a sense of something akin to relief. If a medical expert was telling him it wasn't as serious as he thought it was, he was okay with that. In fact, he was more than okay… he had to bite his tongue to keep from actually thanking Ducky for the good news.

After hanging up with his old friend, Gibbs returned to the threshold of Ziva's bedroom, and once again took in the shadowed shape of her sleeping form, and the long form of Chaka, who had stretch out beside her on the bed with his head resting gently on her hip.

The picture was almost sweet, but was darkened by the knowledge that it had been caused by his own oversight and shortcomings. He hadn't even noticed her pain until it was too painful to bear—she'd spent the entire afternoon after the scene in the store at the Navy Yard, and she hadn't once let on that she was hurting. And if he hadn't ruined whatever they had before Paloma entered the picture, she might have been more likely to let him see her vulnerability sooner. Hell, she might have even let him take her home early.

But what's done was done.

He approached the bed carefully, but let his steps shuffle on the floor, in case she could hear him through her drug-induced sleep. Chaka grumbled in curiosity, but didn't move from his position as Gibbs crouched by the head of the bed.

Ziva didn't seem to hear his approach, for she only stirred when his hand brushed gently against the soft skin of her cheek.

Brown eyes sluggishly peeked out from beneath heavy lids.

"Hey," he said softly, carefully smoothing the hair from her face as her eyes tried to focus on him in the dark. "Can you hear me?"

She blinked heavily. "Gibbs?" Her mumble was thick with sleep, but it made him grin anyway.

"Yeah," he answered, allowing his voice to get a little bit louder. "It's me."

"What're you doin' here?" Her words slurred, but she seemed to become more aware as she glanced around the room. Her hand drifted to her hip, and her fingers gave Chaka's had a cursory scratch before moving on, wandering across the bedspread as she tried to comprehend her surroundings. "Wuh 'appened?"

"What do you remember?" he countered, hoping the question would accelerate her return to consciousness.

"Uh…" Her eyes closed tightly before opening wide, trying to blink through her drugged haze. She struggled to sit up, and he helped her do so by cupping her shoulders with his hands. Once upright, she swayed, and her hand gripped his arm to steady herself. "Whoa…" she voiced groggily. "The office…" she answered finally. "Maybe a car?"

Gibbs nodded in approval. "I drove you home," he clarified. "The dog's been fed and walked, and you've been heavily medicated."

Her brow furrowed at that. "Wuh… Why?"

"Injury sustained in the line of duty."

"Oh, yeah… Mason… The store."

"Yeah," Gibbs confirmed. "Nothing permanent, but it was painful."

She nodded groggily. "I remember."

For a long moment, silence fell. It wasn't more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for her eyes to drift closed once more, and she began to list to the side. With a barely concealed grin, Gibbs cupped her cheek, giving a gentle shake.

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet," he said as her eyes flickered open again. "Let's get you changed first, okay?"

"Why…" her voiced petered out, but she tried to get herself to focus. "Gibbs? What are you doing here?"

It was clear she didn't remember their conversation a moment ago, but when Gibbs opened his mouth to recapitulate, she cut him off.

"You shouldn't be here," she slurred, bowing her head against his hand.

Gibbs looked at her. He waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn't, he ignored it. "C'mon," he said gently, slowly unbuttoning the front of her coat. "Let's get this off."

He deftly maneuvered the coat from her shoulders, sliding it off her arms to leave her clad in the blouse she'd worn to work that day. He set the coat aside before moving on to her boots, unzipping the small zippers along the inside of her ankles. They slipped off easily then, and she sat woodenly as he worked. He tried not to think about the words of protest she'd voiced moments ago, tried not to consider that she didn't want him there.

He wouldn't blame her if she did, but he didn't want to be the one to stick around even after she banished him. Because he would, even if she swore him to hell and back.

He wasn't going to be leaving her alone tonight—he couldn't.

He'd just gotten her shoes off when he felt a small hand grip his shoulder. He glanced up to see Ziva still sitting in front of him, head still bowed, though now her frame was stiff as a board.

"Ziver?" He reached up to touch her cheek, as he had before, but her hand on his shoulder tightened, and he drew back.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

Gibbs hesitated, hoping she'd continue, but she didn't. "Because I want to," he replied honestly. "Because I want to be here for you."

"It hurts," she whispered harshly.

Concern flooded him, and he was instantly up on his knees, rising to do whatever he could to ease her discomfort. "You should have told me sooner," he said. "Can you lay down? I'll call Ducky—"

"_No_." Her voice was suddenly strong, forceful enough to stop him in his tracks. He looked at her in shock, though her head remained dipped, not meeting his gaze. Her hand remained where it was on his shoulder, but her other came up to grip her own blouse, over her heart. "It _hurts_."

His eyes closed at the tears in her voice, the tangible pain that cut straight to his core. The surprise of her clarification quickly gave way to guilt and a hurt of his own, but he quickly tamped both down in order to focus on Ziva.

But what could he say? He could apologize, but would that even mean anything to her? He had cause her pain, apparently still was, but there wasn't much he could do. She avoided any situation where he would be able to try and talk to her about what had happened before he went to Mexico, and talking about it now in her current state would be a waste of breath. As much as he wanted to make things right, now wasn't the time.

"I'll be right back," he said finally, artfully dodging her words. "Stay here, okay?"

There was a moment of hesitation, when he wondered if she even heard him. But then her grip on his shoulder disappeared, and her hands grabbed hold of the edge of the bed, bracing herself against her shaky equilibrium. She didn't respond, but Gibbs left anyway, grateful for the reprieve he didn't think he would need.

He walked to the kitchen and busied himself pouring her a glass of water, remembering Ducky's advice to keep her hydrated. Her next dose of pain killers wouldn't be for at least another ten hours, for which he was torn. While seeing her dead to the world was disconcerting, it at least preempted the confrontation that now seemed inevitable.

With glass in hand, Gibbs moved back to the bedroom, only to find that Ziva had once more laid down on the bed. This time, she'd managed to draw her feet up onto the bed as well, and she'd found her pillow… But she wasn't asleep.

The sound of her sobs was barely discernible, but the shaking of her shoulders was unmistakable.

He stiffly moved back to the side of the bed, setting the glass on the nightstand as he crouched beside her once more. He knew she felt his presence by the way she tried to curl in on herself, though either her injuries or the medication kept her from doing more than pulling her arms closer to her chest.

But her eyes remained closed, refusing to look at him. The sight of the tears dripping horizontally off her nose to fall to the pillow below broke his heart, and he couldn't keep his hand from reaching up to brush the offending moisture away.

His heart broke a little further when she pressed her face deeper into the pillow, evading his well-meaning touch. He let his hand fall, as he bowed his head in defeat.

"Ziver…" His voice was soft, though he willed it to be stronger. She needed to hear him, and he needed to be heard. "I'm so sorry."

Finally her eyes opened, the tears sparkling brightly in the moonlight that worked its way through the lowered blinds on the windows. She stared at him, as though unable to make any sense of him.

"What did I do?" she asked softly, sniffling pitifully. She sounded like a small child, rather than the capable agent he knew her to be, and he knew that it was in part due to the medication. But that didn't make the pain any less palpable, or any easier to stomach.

"What did I do," she reiterated, "that makes it impossible to trust me?"

Gibbs sighed, closing his eyes as he shook his head. "Ziva, I—"

"Don't tell me you do trust me," she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp, "because you didn't. You _don't._"

"Ziva…" But he couldn't think of anything to say. Platitudes had never been his style, and stating the obvious wouldn't do him any good. This time, nothing was obvious.

"Why would you think I had spoken to Eli?" she demanded. "After everything that's happened, all of the pain and difficulty of cutting ties to Israel… Don't you think Eli would be the first string I cut?"

"Ziva, please…"

"No!"

Her sharp rebuke made Gibbs wince, but he didn't back down. He stayed where he was, not once tearing his eyes from her. She glared at him, her eyes dark and accusing. She was becoming increasingly more agitated, and for a moment he worried that she might revert to her usual coping techniques—barely controlled gesticulation, and brisk pacing. Both possibilities posed a threat to her injuries, so he was glad that she remained where she was on the bed.

"Do you doubt my desire to be free of Mossad? Is that it?" she demanded. He didn't answer her, and for a moment silence reigned. But then her expression shifted abruptly, and the anger disappeared in the blink of an eye. The little girl was back, and her gaze lowered as she pressed deeper into the pillow.

"No," she answered for herself. "No… if it was, then you would have been glad to take me to Mexico with you. You would not have disappeared in the middle of the night, made sure I could not follow."

"I was trying to protect you," he whispered, unable to keep his silence. "I didn't want you to get hurt because of _my_ past mistakes."

"And my desire to protect you?" she countered. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

Gibbs paused, but this time she waited for his reply. "No," he said finally. Her eyes closed in disappointment. "Not this time."

He knew that honesty was the least she deserved, even now, but when the tears once again began to eke out from between her lids, he wished he'd been able to lie. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her again, but somewhere deep down he realized that honesty would be the only thing to help them move past this… rift.

He opened his mouth to say something… offer anything that could possibly abate her tears and ease both their pain, but she beat him to the punch yet again.

"Please…" she whispered, her voice almost strangled by the sobs she held at bay. "Please, just go."

The words stabbed at his heart like a knife. "Ziva…"

"Leave me alone."

Her voice was steely now, and Gibbs knew better than to say anything else. She swiped her fingers across her eyes, smearing the short, glistening track of tears across her nose. He wanted to hold her hand, kiss her cheek, but was unable to risk the distress either action he caused. She needed to rest, and it seemed any further interaction would make doing so impossible for her.

So instead he nodded, his heart slamming painfully in his chest as he stood and moved to leave. She said nothing more, though he wished she would call him back, change her mind, seek comfort from him like she used to.

She didn't.

But when he'd almost made it to the doorway, a heartrending sob slipped past her lips, stopping him dead in his tracks. He looked back over his shoulder, and his heart broke a little more when he saw her hand come up to cover her face, muffling any other sound that fought to escape her. His gut twisted, but then, as he came to a decision, suddenly calmed.

Disregarding the cautious voice in his head, Gibbs turned around and returned to the bed. This time though, he did not cross to Ziva's side. Instead, he toed off his own shoes before crawling up onto the bed behind her.

Chaka was surprisingly accommodating, as the dog nimbly abandoned the bed in order to take up residence in Gibbs' former place by Ziva's head. As Gibbs lay down and circled his arms around Ziva's frame, the dog whined and gave his mistress a comforting lick.

For the first few moments, Ziva stiffened against his hold, almost pulling away from him. But when he didn't let go, nor made any move to leave as she'd instructed, she finally broke.

With another gasping sob that tore at his heart, her hands found his and gripped them tightly, almost to the point of pain. But Gibbs didn't make a sound of protest—he simply held her, as her body shook against his and hot tears fell onto his arms. His cheek rested on her head, his lips whispering into her ear.

"I'm so sorry," he uttered softly, trying to keep the hitch of tears from his own voice. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He whispered it again and again, until her sobs faded and her body grew heavy with exhaustion. He listened as her breathing evened out, and eventually, she fell asleep against him, her expression finally peaceful. He breathed in deeply, letting flowers and spice invade his senses after so long apart. He missed it, missed _this_, missed _her._ And though it wasn't the way he wished it could be, he was thankful for it nonetheless.

It had been so long since anything had felt so right, and he knew he'd be a fool to disregard it for what it was.

Hope.

Ever so gently, he pressed a kissed into her hair, letting his eyes drift closed as the ice in his chest—the chill that had seemed to follow him everywhere since she had said goodbye—finally melted.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice so light he doubted even Chaka could hear it. He felt his own heart rate slow as he neared sleep, and he allowed the welcoming darkness to steal over him. He was more relaxed than he'd been in months, and he knew it was due wholly in part to the woman now dozing in his arms.

And just before he fully lost consciousness, he heard a breath of sound brush over his dwindling awareness, seemingly so far away that he wasn't sure it wasn't a dream.

But it was undoubtedly her voice that uttered the words, dream or no, and the sound of it embraced him as he finally drifted off to sleep.

"_I love you too."_

The next morning dawned bright and early, and a particularly ill-placed shaft of sunshine lanced past Gibbs' lids as he blearily blinked away his usual morning grogginess. But he didn't move, instead taking advantage of the quiet moment to savor the feel of her familiar presence, so close after being denied him so long. During the night, her hold on his hands had shifted, for now her fingers were laced with his.

Almost unconsciously, his thumb automatically began to stroke soft circles across her skin, succumbing to habit as easily as though it hadn't been months since their separation.

A soft hum and shifting warmth filling his arms reminded him that he wasn't alone. A moment later, the waking form against his chest froze, and he knew that she'd come to the same realization.

"Hey," he said gently, trying to stave off her panic.

Her head turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Gibbs?" she said warily, confusion wrinkling her brow. "What…?"

"Good morning," he responded amiably, temporarily ignoring her question.

"Uhm… Good morning," she responded finally. Gently, she pushed his arms away, and he allowed her the space to sit up. When she was perched on the edge of the bed, her hand came up to rub her face gently. "Wow…" she said thickly. "What… What happened?"

Gibbs shifted until he was perched next to her, and he brushed an errant curl from her face as he fought to keep his disappointment to himself.

She didn't remember.

He'd half expected it, since the pain killers had most likely been responsible for her breakdown last night anyway, but a part of him had hoped…

"You took some medication last night that made you a little loopy," he answered, keeping the details simple and vague. "I didn't want you to be on your own, so I stayed the night."

Her gaze darted away, almost in embarrassment. "You did not have to do that," she said quietly.

"I know," he responded honestly. "But I wanted to."

Brown eyes lifted to his once more, and he met her gaze without a hint of regret. Finally, she offered a tight-lipped twist of her mouth that _almost_ could be a smile. "Well… thank you."

He accepted the thanks with a nod, before his attention shifted. "How're you feeling?"

Her lips parted almost immediately to give the standard _fine_, but when she saw his stern look she seemed to reevaluate. Finally, she twisted her torso gently, lightly stretching and taking inventory of her condition. She tried to hide it, but he saw her wince when she pushed a little too far.

"A little sore," she responded in the end. A pause followed, and when his expression didn't soften, she finally acquiesced. "Okay, a lot sore. But…" Her features turned thoughtful, and her profile relaxed as he watched. "Better." She shrugged her inability to explain it as she looked at him. "Better than I've felt in a long time."

Her eyes were bright and clear, a far cry from what they'd been last night, and suddenly Gibbs knew that her being fine had nothing to do with her injuries or healing thereof. She may not remember what had happened last night, but something had happened, and she felt the difference.

Once again, a little spark of hope ignited in Gibbs' gut.

"Um…" Ziva's hesitation broke through Gibbs' thoughts. "Did we, ah…" A flush colored her cheeks. "Did we…?" Her fingers motioned between them, and Gibbs fought a smile.

"Nothing happened," he assured her. "Just sleep. We didn't even get undressed."

Ziva's gaze traveled the length of his body, then darted to her legs, taking in their fully dressed state, in their clothes from the day before. She gave a soft sigh.

"Oh, good," she breathed, before she remembered he was still there. "I mean, no offence, but…"

Gibbs shook his head at her apology. "I get it. If I have sex, I'd want to remember it too."

The snark came out before he could stop himself, but instead of rising up to rip him a new one, her flush merely deepened. She stared at her hands, folded in her lap as her fingers worried each other, and though she didn't respond, Gibbs swore he could see a familiar spark in her eyes. But a moment later it was gone, and she rose from the bed.

"I will make us some coffee," she stated clearly, all trace of sleep gone from her voice. She moved towards the door, deftly stepping over Chaka's still-sleeping form as she did so. "You know where the restroom is, if you would like to freshen up…"

He watched her disappear from the doorway, and waited until he heard her moving around the kitchen before he too rose. As he padded into the bathroom, his thoughts drifted back to the night before, and everything that had happened. None of it necessarily meant anything, but his heart wouldn't let him deny that it could possibly mean _everything._

He knew what he wanted it to be, and this morning gave him more hope than he deserved, but he hoped nonetheless.

After splashing some water on his face and gargling some mouthwash in lieu of brushing his teeth, he joined the focus of his thoughts in the kitchen. She heard his approach, and after a brief moment struck up a conversation.

"What are you going to do about Mason?" she asked bluntly, her attention on the sputtering coffee machine. It took him a moment to recognize that she was referring to their ongoing case, and the reason he'd spent the night in the first place. "Do you believe his story?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Don't know yet."

"Well, we have to do something soon. The old man may be certain this is all about him, but our case _is_ about the girl."

"I know," he agreed with a nod. "But I don't think anything's getting solved before my first cup of coffee."

As if on cue, the coffee machine beeped, signaling its finished brew. Gibbs watched as Ziva poured out two mugs of the stuff, noting from the fragrance that filled the kitchen that she'd made her special blend—the one his dad kept asking him to sneak from her. He bit back a smile as she handed him a cup, and then took a moment to observe her as she blew gently on the contents of her own mug.

It wasn't long before she noticed his gaze, and shifted nervously on her feet. Her brow furrowed as she stared into the depths of her mug, gripping it with both hands as she spoke.

"So… last night," she started, her voice soft. "Did I… _do _anything? I mean, Ducky said the pills could make me act a little strange…" She let the sentence hang, hoping he would fill in the blanks.

Unable to resist, he grinned devilishly as he hid behind his mug. "Not really," he voiced finally. "Just a little serenade of a particularly eloquent Arabic ballad, with an encore of a Shakira dance, but, other than that…" He gave an innocent shrug, and was rewarded with a small, but honest smile as she shielded her eyes with a hand.

"Oh, shoot me now," she mumbled in despair, though her smile didn't fade. He chuckled in response, though he knew that it was unlikely she truly believed him. She read him better than that, and that in itself also made his gut flutter with excitement.

He was teasing her, and she was playing along.

It was so familiar, so welcome, that he almost failed to fully register her words. But when he did, his mind flashed to Mason, and sudden inspiration hit him like a sack-load of bricks. He looked to her with such intensity that her hand immediately dropped, though her smile remained, matching his growing grin undauntedly as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I've got an idea."


	59. Worth the Wait

_A/N: Yes! I'm on a roll. Almost caught up! The next two are on their way, never fear! Enjoy!_

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Gibbs stared at the box perched perilously on the gangster's lap, but then his attention shifted to the woman who held the detonator—the true threat.

Sunlight poured into the barn, filling the wooden structure with an out of place warmth that belied the icy reality before them. The gangster was obviously out his mind with fear, the fear that he was finally getting his comeuppance despite his endeavors to warp the judicial system to his benefit, to escape the consequences of his actions. The law enforcer in him approved of the man's twist in fate, but at the same time, he knew he couldn't allow it to actually happen.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Ziva watching his six, her dark eyes fixed intently on Sergeant Heather Dempsey. But there was something about her stance, about the way she completely disregarded the presence of the bomb on the man's legs. She was the one who would be most capable of disarming the bomb, once they convinced Marine to relinquish the detonator. A few months ago, she would have been studying the bomb from the get-go, trying to figure it out even before he allowed her to get close enough to actually work on it.

But she wasn't, instead studying the Marine who seemed a little too unconcerned for his taste.

The next few moments were tense, and Gibbs felt Ziva's silent questions at his hesitation burning into the back of his neck. But in the end, he'd made the right decision—the bomb was fake, and they all walked out of that barn safe and sound. Gibbs lingered though, as DiNozzo led the Marine to the waiting cop car and McGee escorted their missing witness.

With the danger gone, the barn was a sanctuary, muting the chaos from outside and insulating the interior with musty warmth. But that wasn't the reason he hesitated…

No, it was the petit, silent form still gazing thoughtfully at the chair that had just recently been prison to an ex-gangbanger.

For a moment, he looked at her without approaching, thinking back to the morning they'd shared a few weeks ago. She still didn't seem to have any memory of that night she'd been crying in his arms, or the conversation they'd had, but things had been a little bit easier between them. They could make eye contact now without one or the other looking quickly away, and she seemed a little bit more relaxed when he was near.

Even so, things were far from normal. Besides interacting during cases, they barely spoke. She no longer seemed to be consciously avoiding him, but it was still a rare moment that he had a chance to speak with her privately, and that was almost worse than the alternative. Now it seemed almost second nature for her to stay away, and that possibility was almost enough to overcome the hope he'd yet to let go of after that night he'd helped her.

She now stood statuesque in the shafts of light that cut through the soft shadows of the barn, and he saw the smallest of grins steal over her lips.

"What's so funny?" he said finally, letting his presence be known.

Her head lifted sharply, and her gaze met his with startling clarity. But her smile never left, and after a moment, she nodded to the now-empty chair with a shrug.

"It was not quite as bloodthirsty as I might have expected," she said amicably, "but it certainly did the trick."

Gibbs chuckled, stepping closer to her. "Yeah, I wasn't really expecting that little twist either."

"I like her," she stated suddenly, her posture straightening.

He gave her a confused look. "You mean Sergeant Dempsey?"

She nodded. "She has…"

"Spirit?" he offered.

"_Chutzpah," _she countered. "I can respect that, though I may not agree with her actions."

At this, Gibbs' eyebrows rose skeptically. "You wouldn't have tried to get revenge on that guy?"

She gave him a chiding look. "I never said that," she pointed out. She rocked back on her heels, her gaze once more returning to the chair. "I simply would not have played with him as she did."

"You knew the bomb was fake, didn't you?"

She grinned. "Maybe not for sure. But she was not suicidal, and she was a little too casual for being so close to a bomb that was supposedly motion-sensitive."

Gibbs smirked, sharing in her smug triumph. She was good, he'd give her that. But a moment later, his expression turned serious.

"So, what do you think?" he asked finally.

She looked at him, mirroring his now guarded-expression. "About what?"

"Tolin… He's back with his family. Doubt he's gonna care about the outcome of the case."

"Mhmm…" Ziva agreed. There was more he wanted to say, and she knew it.

"She doesn't seem too broken up about it," he continued carefully.

She glanced at him quickly, before looking to the door of the barn, where the Sergeant was now having her statement taken. "I suppose she has gotten what she wanted out of the relationship." Her voice was thoughtful. "She no longer needs him."

Gibbs stared at her, and in an instant he knew they were both wondering if she was talking about them, than Tolin and Dempsey.

For a moment, neither spoke, but eventually Gibbs managed to find his voice, and asked what he needed to know.

"And you?" he murmured softly. She regarded him silently, waiting for him to elaborate. "Did you get what you wanted?"

For a split second, her eyes widened, but then narrowed with startling speed, and he could see her shields slam into place. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and after a tense moment of silence, she pushed past him, intent on leaving.

"I have to go help Tony," she muttered in excuse, but he grasped her arm before she could disappear.

His grip was gentle, not nearly strong enough to keep her there if she put up a fight, but she stopped anyway, her gaze glued to the floor so that she wouldn't have to look him in the eye. He let his hand drift down the length of her arm, until his touch found the soft skin of her hand.

"We have to talk sometime," he told her gently.

Her gaze refused to leave the deck, and her fingers remained stubbornly limp in his grasp. But she couldn't hide the hurt that crossed her features, or the regret that sent the slightest of shivers through her frame.

"I would rather not," she said finally, barely more than whisper, before she broke the contact between them, pulling her hand away and joining the others outside.

This time, he watched her go.

There was nothing he could do, at least, not here and not now. He heard his father's voice in his head, telling him to be patient, reminding him that a conversation couldn't happen until both parties were ready. And clearly, Ziva wasn't ready.

But that didn't keep the hurt from creeping into his bones, until his joints actually began to ache. The case had come too close to home, and he was incapable of doing anything to assure himself that he and Ziva were _not_ Tobin and Dempsey—that _their_ story wasn't quite finished yet.

And it seemed Ziva wasn't willing to reassure him either.

The deep-seated fear that Ziva had gotten what she wanted from him, and was thereby done with him, left him shaken and feeling older than his years. But he couldn't let himself give up, not yet. Not until she could tell him with absolutely certainty and clarity that she wanted to move on, that she no longer wanted him in any sort of personal capacity.

She hadn't done so yet, and though it pained him to see it, her continued distress at whatever was or wasn't happening between them spoke volumes to him.

He refused to let go of the hope that still lingered from that morning weeks ago. He wasn't giving up, not just yet.

Because she was worth the wait.


	60. Rising Tides

The weeks passed, and Gibbs did his best to be patient. But Ziva was nothing if not stubborn, and she refused to put herself into a position where he could approach her again. He considered going to her apartment more than once, but in the end that was one line he could not cross. She'd gotten the place to preserve her privacy and independence, and no doubt she was now using it as a haven—the one place she didn't have to see him, be around him, and pretend nothing was wrong.

He respected that privacy, even if it meant he couldn't get through to her.

And for a while, it seemed to have been a wise decision. The situation wasn't comfortable, but things were beginning to fall back into place. After the scene in the barn, Ziva was ever so slowly opening back up, if not to him, but to the others. She teased them, played with them, enjoying their company as much as they enjoyed hers. And for a while, things almost seemed normal.

But that normality was not something he was entitled to. He kept waiting for her to bite the bullet and come to him. He knew she wanted to; he could see it, every so often, when he caught her watching him. But she never came, and didn't let him make the first move. And so he cherished the looks she stole at him, as they were his only reassurance that she wasn't quite over them either.

That is, until Royal Marine Major Peter Malloy came upon the scene.

Gibbs' gut had burned in a jealous rage when he saw her perk up immediately at the sight of the younger man, her interest instantly evident.

He'd managed to tamp down his emotions enough to cross to his desk, but he'd been careful not to try meeting Ziva's gaze as he passed, knowing she'd be able to see through his façade in a second. He'd spent most of the case trying to ignore the obvious chemistry that sparked between the two of them, telling himself that she deserved to be happy, no matter it meant for him. But that didn't mean he hadn't let the less mature side of his personality surface during the course of the case.

In fact, had anyone asked, he would have been hard pressed to deny that sabotaging the boat had been anything less than of purely professional intent. And he would have been incapable of claiming that he had not gotten a sense of jealous satisfaction from succeeding in his delinquent endeavors.

But in the end, Ziva's interest hadn't been at all dampened—at least not until it became evident the Royal Marine was their perpetrator. It was only then that her eyes did anything other than light up at the mention of the Brit's name.

And it was with a sour bitterness in his mouth that he returned to his house later that night, frustrated with both the case and Ziva's crush. He stomped into the house with heavy feet, but froze when, in the darkness, something moved with a soft shuffle.

In an instant his weapon was out and at the ready, his senses all on high alert. With a smooth hand he flipped the light switch, and when the room was illuminated with a warm but dim light, he was confronted with the sight of Ziva sitting against the wall, her wrists cuffed to the defunct furnace that stood against the far wall of the living room.

Rage, indignation, and concern for her well-being washed over him, but a moment later her relaxed posture and annoyed expression registered, and the razor edge of his rage dulled just enough for him to maintain his self-control.

She met his gaze with an unamused look of her own before giving a roll of her eyes as she tilted her head towards the sofa, alerting to the intruder's presence. Cautiously, he turned the corner, and trained his gun on the lone figure lounging on the couch.

To his mild surprise, it was Malloy.

"Sorry about that," the Brit said, motioning towards Ziva.

In a show of amiable nonviolence, the Royal Marine leaned forward to slide his gun onto the coffee table in front of the couch, where it joined a cell phone, two knives, two semi-automatics, a loaded key ring, a lock pick set, and a single handcuff key—apparently, he had thoroughly disarmed Ziva when he'd cuffed her.

"Had to make sure she didn't try to tip you off," he continued. "Or kill me."

"Still might," Ziva cut in sharply.

Gibbs glanced her way, before turning back to Malloy. "You better have a good reason for cuffing my agent," he snarled, not yet lowering his weapon.

"Like I said, she would have killed me," came the unaffected reply. Then the Brit shrugged. "That and I needed to talk to you… without surveillance."

"Could have called."

"Ah, but would you have listened?" Malloy waved towards Ziva. "Now, I have your attention."

Hesitantly, Gibbs holstered his weapon and took a seat. "Yeah," he answered. "You do."

And then, just like that, Malloy turned their case on its head. Their witness became a suspect, and their suspect a witness, and they rediscovered the trail of money that been evading them for days.

Gibbs managed to maintain an expression of skepticism, but Ziva's interest was evident. Her eyes glinted in the shadows as she watched the two of them converse, and she spoke up only once or twice to pose her questions, seeking clarification in what now seemed cut and dry in its convolution.

And when Malloy left fifteen minutes later, she leaned her head back to rest against the wall with a sigh. He glanced at her for a moment before standing and retrieving the key on the table.

"This was not exactly how I expected to spend my night," she commented drily as he ambled towards her.

"I'm surprised he managed to get the drop on you," he returned.

"It does seem to be happening a lot lately," she agreed dispassionately. "I blame it on my citizenship." He crouched down in front of her, but when he paused, she looked at him in question. "What?"

"How _did_ you expect to spend your night?"

It was an oblique inquiry into her own intentions in being in his home, and she recognized it for what it was. She huffed self critically, her lips a tight line. "I came to talk, believe it or not."

"We can still talk," he told her, trying to ignore the flutter in his gut. He couldn't let himself get excited, not yet.

His hesitation was well-justified when she cocked her head impishly. "Not so much in the mood now."

With a growing sense of disappointment, Gibbs looked to the key he held between his fingers. Then impulsively, he palmed it, encapsulated it in his hand to hide it from view. Instantly, Ziva tensed, her posture straightening as she squared her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" she asked sharply, her eyes flashing. "Uncuff me."

He shook his head, disregarding her order. "No," he answered. "We need to talk."

"And you think _now_ is the best time?" she snapped. She pulled at her cuffs instinctively. "I am cuffed to a _furnace_."

"You wouldn't be if you didn't run away every time I tried to talk to you."

"So this is _my_ fault?"

Gibbs considered that for a moment. "Yeah, actually," he responded. Snark aside, she could have prevented getting cuffed in the first place. "But not my point. We need to talk," he reiterated. He settled himself on the floor across from her, sitting cross-legged to face her head on.

"We can talk later. When I'm not restrained."

"Now," he countered unyieldingly.

"You think _forcing_ a conversation is going to fix this?" She motioned to space between them, though they both knew the distance she was referring to was much greater.

He shrugged. "I didn't think so," he confessed. "I was going to let you come to me, to wait until you were ready." He shook his head. "But you haven't. You're hiding… running."

He gave her a chance to contradict him, to protest, but she didn't. She tore her eyes from him, shifting to glare at the offending handcuffs, confirming the truth of his words.

"Ziva, in all the time I've known you, you've never run from anything. Why start with me?"

"Gibbs, you hired me as a liaison officer _because_ I was running," she pointed out. "From my father, from Mossad. And then I nearly got you and the others killed because you chased after me when I ran after Michael died. And now you have hired me again because I am running from Mossad and my father." She continued to avoid his gaze. "Spare me the platitudes."

"Fine," he snapped back. "Then you agree there's a reason for the cuffs."

She glared at him sharply, and for a moment, she almost said something. But then her lips closed again, and her jaw remained stubbornly set. She looked away, giving tight shake of her head, brushing off his words.

"Look, I want to talk to you, and this is the only way you'll let me."

"_Let_ you!"

"You came here for a reason, Ziva."

At that, she fell silent.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he told her. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you, and I'm sorry I made you think I couldn't rely on you, and I'm sorry I missed your ceremony." He let his head drop at that. "I'm _really_ sorry I missed your ceremony."

"And you think an apology will suddenly make everything all right?" she sniped back, distaste dripping from her tongue. "You think _I'm sorry_ are magic words? Well, that is all they are, Gibbs. _Words_."

His eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me?"

"It wouldn't be the first time someone lied to me to get what they wanted."

The words were deliberately sharp, designed solely to cut him, and his temper flared at the hurt. "I have _never _lied to you," he growled dangerously.

"No, you only sneak around and keep secrets, and then get self-righteous when we do the same. You only _protect _us," she snarled. "With Mexico, with Domino, with Jenny, with Pedro Hernandez… I cringe to think what I may not know had I not been sharing your bed all these years."

Gibbs arched a brow. "Oh, so you're using me now? Is that it? You slept your way into my secrets?"

"Did I?" she countered, completely undaunted by the growing ice in his voice. "You tell me, Gibbs, because I thought what we shared was trust, but all that went out the window the minute things got tough for you."

"That's not—" he cut himself abruptly. He wanted to tell that wasn't what happened, but wasn't it? Maybe it wasn't the first time things got tough, and maybe it wasn't the toughest times they faced, but it was true nonetheless. Maybe not the way she meant it or intended it, but in a way…

"I didn't want to talk to you to argue," he said, trying to redirect the turn of the conversation.

She eyed him incredulously. "Really? What, did you just expect to roll over and take it? This… this _bullshit_?"

Gibbs blinked. It was the first time she'd used such profanity in his presence, sans narcotics, and it surprised him. But Ziva barely blinked, and she continued to glare at him in accusation.

"What is it you want to hear, Jethro?" she demanded. "You want to hear that I forgive you— no harm, no foul? Do you expect _me_ to apologize for being judgmental?"

He didn't answer, and suddenly her expression shifted. Her voice softened, but her words chipped away at him more sharply than any of the accusations she'd just thrown his way.

"Or did you want me to say that I am absolutely miserable without you? That it breaks my heart to see you every day, and remember everything I've lost? That I can't shake the feeling the feeling that I came so close to having _everything_, and now I won't ever get it back?" Her eyes glinted in the dim light, and he knew she was close to tears. His gut clenched guiltily—this definitely wasn't playing out how he wanted it to.

"Is that what you want to hear?" she whispered. A tear trailed down her cheek, but this time, her eyes didn't leave his. Instead she looked deep into his eyes, riveting him to the spot. "_Because you just did_."

Gibbs froze.

Eyes locked on hers, he stared at her, too shocked by her confession to say even a word. She stared back at him with tear-filled orbs, and all of a sudden she seemed fearful—not of him, but of the vulnerability she had finally admitted to. No doubt it had not been her intention to do so.

Finally he tore his eyes away, forcing his gaze to the hardwood beneath them. His throat worked painfully, trying to swallow the sharp lump that had suddenly restricted his airway. He tried to think of something, _anything_ to say, but nothing came, just as he'd failed the day she'd confronted him after her ceremony.

Well, he'd gotten his answer; he now knew that she was hurting as much as he was. Strangely, he didn't feel vindicated, satisfied, or even reassured. He simply… ached. In the pit of his stomach, he felt her pain more acutely than he felt his own.

Maybe he wasn't as ready for this conversation as he'd thought he was.

With a strangled breath he hesitated only a moment more before he pressed the key into her fingers, relinquishing control without a word. A second later the cuffs clunked to the floor and she was swiftly recovering the hardware Malloy had left spread on the coffee table.

And then she was gone, disappearing with barely a whisper of sound as her trench coat rasped against her slacks.

And just like that, just as he had the day of her ceremony, he let her go again.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, this is a slight AU from the canon. This scene popped into my head as I was watching it, and though it may have jumped the shark, I liked it. So I posted it. _

_As always, read, review, and let me know what you think. I've gotten a couple reviews about bringing in more of the rest of Team Gibbs, and that's in the works. _

_And yes, I know this is more angst for our favorite duo... But it won't last forever. We're making progress, slowly but surely.  
_


	61. A Lending Hand Pt 1

_A/N: Holy Hannah... When I say the muse is back, I guess I really do mean it! Another little treat for you guys! Enjoy!_

* * *

The pounding on Gibbs' door almost didn't register through his thick haze of disinterest as he tinkered with the toy in his hand.

It had been one of Kelly's one that had broken over a decade ago. He was trying to fix it, to donate it to charity, but it was only busy work, and allowed him to lose focus with alarming ease. His mind was elsewhere, on a phantom woman who refused to let him be.

This time though, the elusive ghost was not his wife or daughter, but of _her_.

Of Ziva_._

She evaporated into thin air when he finally noticed the stubborn sounds issuing from his door, and he trotted up the basement stairs with something akin to annoyance, though even that was only half-hearted. But he was honestly surprised when he opened the door only to be pushed aside by a fluttering blur of black lace and taffeta.

"What is wrong with you, Gibbs?" Abby demanded, not giving him a chance to greet her before she rounded on him. He closed the door behind her, then turned to meet her glare. "I know you're not stupid, so you must just be stubborn. Well, stubborn isn't going to do either of you any good."

"Abby—"

"I've been trying to give you guys space, so you could work it out your own. But this is getting ridiculous! Do you know what I just had to sit through? A full two hours of Tony doing nothing but speculating on Ziva's love life!"

Gibbs eyed her sharply, as though expecting her to reveal her joke, but she merely raised her brows at him.

"Exactly! And you know what he's been telling me? About Mr. Miami and the smarmy Royal Marine! Not one, but _two_ guys!" She began to pace in agitation. "This is getting way out of hand, Gibbs! She's slipping away, and you're just sitting back and letting it happen!"

"Abs—"

"You have to talk to her Gibbs, you _have _to!"

"I_ tried_, Abby!"

The ferocity of the exclamation surprised her, and she stopped pacing to stare at him in shock. He shifted his stance under her gaze, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"And?" she prompted.

"It didn't go well," he answered vaguely. When she cocked her head in impatience, he continued. "We fought, and she stormed out."

With a roll of her eyes, she gave a condescending huff. "Of course she did! She loves you, Gibbs, and whatever this separation, or breakup, or whatever is, it hurt her a lot."

When he guiltily dropped his gaze to the floor, she was quick to backtrack. "Not that all of this is your fault," she said rapidly. "I'm not going to pass judgment on either one of you, that's not my job or my intention. But don't you realize what's happening here?"

He looked at her, but didn't respond.

"She's scared stiff, Gibbs. Terrified. I don't think she's ever cared as much about anyone in her life as she does about you. And even if she has, I doubt they're still alive. She doesn't know what to do, so she's reverting to her old routine of trying to hide behind her walls to avoid dealing with it. But she can't necessarily hide from you, so she's running. It's all she knows how to do."

Gibbs eyed her. "She told you all that?"

"God no," came the quick response. "She hasn't told me a thing about any of this, which is another issue in itself. You have no idea how much I hate how considerate you two are right now. She's my best friend, she's _supposed_ to come to me about this kind of stuff. But _no_, she's too concerned about my relationship with you to risk telling me anything. And _you_, well… you've never been forthcoming about anything, so…"

She let the sentence hang, and once again the heat of guilt and anger infiltrated his senses. She was right, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach.

"Again," she said quickly, "not blaming you. It's just who you are, and I've accepted that. And I've tried to respect boundaries and all that, but when I see Tony getting all crazy because Ziva's showing interest in other guys, knowing what I know, I go a little crazy. In fact, he darn well nearly drove me out of my mind today."

She sighed, shaking her head regretfully. "He was doing really well for a while," she continued, "which I attribute to Ziva being completely content with you… well, that and the fact that he was afraid he was gonna break her after Somalia, but still—he's on the scent again, and if you guys just sat down and worked things out, he'd stop acting like an idiot."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Okay," Abby amended finally. "Maybe not. But the longer he's left to his own devices, the more complicated everything's gonna get."

"So is it Ziva you want me to talk to, or DiNozzo?" Gibbs inquired, his voice lightly teasing.

"No no no," she returned, "you focus on Ziva. I can handle Tony, for now."

Gibbs took in her words, but after a long moment, gave a soft sigh. "I already tried to talk to her. She doesn't want to hear from me, and she's not going to come to me on her own." He looked her in the eye, allowing him to see the honesty in his gaze. "I don't know what to do, Abs."

Black lips curled into a warm smile. "That's the beauty of it, Gibbs. You're not supposed to. That'd make it too easy. You're gonna have to figure it out on your own, because no one else knows any better than you do. Not even Ziva."

She paused, then took a step towards him, keeping her eyes locked with his.

"But whatever you _do_ do," she continued, "if you really love Ziva… you can't give up. No matter what."

At that, she hesitated, her gaze hardening. "But if you _don't_ really love her, you'll let her go now. Because if you chase her now only to break her heart later on down the road… you'll destroy whatever's left of her."

Her tone was ominous, but Gibbs wasn't daunted. "My loving her was never in question, Abs."

She eyed him knowingly. "I know," she told him.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, neither of them knowing what else to say. Eventually, Abby cleared her throat awkwardly. "Well," she delivered bluntly, "I better go." She began to move towards the door. "The weekend waits for no man."

She almost made it past him before his arms snaked around her shoulders, pulling her in close. The intensity with which he embraced her came as a surprise to the Goth, but she understood. In the back of her mind, she recognized that maybe she wasn't the one he really wanted to be hugging. That was okay… she got enough hugs of her own.

"Thanks, Abs," he whispered gently in her ear, his voice husky.

She wrapped her arms around him, giving him a tight squeeze. "Anytime," she replied just as softly. "I hate seeing either of you hurting so bad. I wish I could fix it for you, but as much as I pretend I am, I'm not magic."

She was rewarded with a chuckle. "Could've fooled me," she heard as his hold on her loosened.

He pulled away from her, releasing her once more. A warm glimmer sparkled in his eye as he opened the door for her, and she smiled at the familiar sight.

"I'll see you on Monday," she told him easily, putting on the carefree air she wore for work. Gibbs nodded.

"Yeah, I will."

And then she trotted out of the house and across the lawn. The smile on her lips was an honest one, because she had finally been reassured that her concerns were, if not unfounded, unnecessary. Gibbs wasn't about to let Ziva slip away, she was sure of it.

And even if he didn't know how yet, he would put everything right again.

Because even if she wasn't magic, she had a very strong feeling that Gibbs was.


	62. Cresting Waves

Gibbs listened to the crackling voices feeding through the headset. It felt like old times, with him in the car, listening to a colleague acting on the other end, slipping into a role that was designed to get into the good graces of killers and thieves.

It didn't sit well with him, but it had been the only conceivable way to insert themselves into the gated community in time to prevent the potential bombing.

Suddenly, a loud bang issued through the feed—a door had been slammed open nearby.

Then came Ziva's voice; calm, but decidedly tense. Gibbs shared a look with DiNozzo, who looked as uneasy as Gibbs felt. It was evident the younger man had heard the sudden change in her voice as well.

Before either of them could say a word, the shouting began, their mark shouting accusations so loudly they could almost hear it without the hidden mic.

"She's not Mossad!" Haskell cried angrily.

"Excuse me?" Ziva's voice was low and dangerous—a wiser man would have known to back off. But Arthur Haskell was not a wise man.

"My source just got back to me. Said Ziva David officially resigned from Mossad almost twelve months ago… and was immediately recruited by the feds!"

In an instant, Gibbs and Tony were flying from the surveillance van, just as McGee came tearing out of the sedan he'd been parked in. He'd been listening as well, and they all knew that her cover was blown, the mission officially going to hell in a hand basket.

Gibbs' heart pounded like a jackhammer as they sprinted to the house, avoiding the front door in favor of going directly round the back to get to the block party. But then, just as they reached the fence, his heart seemed to stop when a loud gunshot echoed from the yard.

In a blur, Gibbs was aware of himself slamming through the hinged door, then another rapid fire succession of three shots as he took down Haskell. The gun flew from the man's hand as he spasmed, landing harmlessly on the lush green grass, but the damage had already been done.

Ziva lay crumpled on the ground, half on the stone patio that bordered the pool. Already, the chlorinated water was being tinged with red, the viscous swirls slowly emanating from where her precious blood dripped from between the tiles.

With no thought as to who was watching, Gibbs fell to his knees beside her, his fingers automatically reaching for a pulse. But he already knew it was too late.

A choked sob escaped from his lips, his eyes glued to the serene visage of his lover and fiancée. Horror flooded his system, as the peace of her repose was marred by the small trickle of blood that trailed from the 9mm hole in her forehead.

He tried not to look at the spatter of brain and skull behind her, or the deadened glass of her eyes as the tears poured down his cheeks.

He was too late.

All of the things he'd wanted to tell her drifted through his mind, barely registering past the searing pain of loss, just one more loss to add to his tally. All of the things he should have done and all of the things he'd hoped for her, for them, disappeared in the blink of an eye, snuffed out as easily as her life had been.

She was dead.

Ziva was dead, and he was alone, again.

A warm hand pressed down on his shoulder. He looked up, expecting to see DiNozzo standing there with his own heartbreak. But instead, familiar brown eyes stared down at him in concern.

"Gibbs…"

Her voice sounded throughout his consciousness, but her lips didn't move. He glanced down to where he lay, to prove he hadn't imagined it, but saw nothing but grass. But the hand on his shoulder remained, further confusing him.

He looked up again, and though was reassured by her familiar features, he realized with a start that they were not in the suburbs, not in a backyard… not even outside.

He bolted upright instinctively, his breath catching in his chest, and the Ziva before him pulled back with a jerk.

Her eyes were wide, but she remained where she was, allowing Gibbs to get a good look at her. Her bloodstained clothes were gone, replaced by jeans and a cotton tee that left the chain of his dog tag clearly visible. She wore one of her many jackets, with a thin scarf wrapped lightly over her neck to stave off the uncharacteristic chill of the season.

It was then that he realized he'd been dreaming.

Gibbs let out a soft sigh as he relaxed, steadying himself against the fierce pounding of his heart. He then turned back to Ziva, who sat on the edge of his bed, watching him carefully.

"Shalom," she said. Her tone was gentle, but the language was somewhat aloof, keeping him unaware of the true intent of her visit.

As always, he refused to let himself speculate.

"Hey," he answered. He ran a weary hand over his eyes. "What're you doin' here Ziva? It's the middle of the night."

"I know," she answered, her voice shifting from gentle to tight, her apprehension taking a firm grip. Her fingers were interlaced, but even that couldn't quite keep them still. They lifted and twisted as she spoke. "And I am sorry about that, but—" She paused, as though thinking better of what she had to say.

Gibbs let her have a moment, to gather her thoughts. He might've been tired, but he didn't have it in him to rush her, or send her away, no matter the hour. He watched as her eyes closed, her jaw clenching and unclenching as she tried to force the question from her lips.

"Was I of more use to you when I was Mossad?"

Gibbs blinked. Of all of the things he had been expecting out of her mouth, that hadn't been it. "What?"

"I only ask," she continued quickly, "because it seems I have been using my skills as a Mossad officer in these past few months more than I have in the four years I spent as a liaison officer." Her eyes refused to meet his, instead remaining glued to her hands. "In Miami I was networking with narcoterrorists, and then I was sniping Nicholas Mason, all but seducing a Royal Marine, and then this case. For this case, I actually was Mossad again, for all intents and purposes and for however short a time."

This time, she met his gaze with a tremulous one of her own. And though she paused for him to respond, he was at a loss for what to say, sleep and shock clouding his thoughts. When the silence persisted, she continued on, eager to fill the uneasy quiet.

"I think I just wanted to know…" Her voice trailed off, but then she took a bolstering breath before going on. "Has my status, as Mossad or otherwise, been a concern to you? And if so, if I was more useful as Mossad, why did you not say something earlier? I never even considered the possibility that you might actually prefer me as Mossad, but now that I have I—"

Her words cut off abruptly when Gibbs pressed a light finger to her lips, silencing her. "Stop." His voice was clear and robust, cutting through the shadows of the bedroom as cleanly as a razor. "Don't even go there."

"But—"

"No, Ziva. Nothing on this Earth will ever make me wish you were still Mossad, or that you were anything other than who you are today. You are just as strong now as you were before you became an agent."

Ziva's lips parted again, but he raised a finger once more, and she remained silent.

"I can't explain why we've needed those skills in particular lately…" he continued. "With cases, it's just a roll of the dice, and if it bothers you, we can make sure we find different ways of getting it done in the future. But whether you're Mossad or NCIS hasn't been a factor, not in the way you're thinking— it never has been."

His words had been meant to be as comforting and reassuring as they were honest, but to Gibbs' surprise, he watched as her shoulders slumped in defeat as her head lifted in tearful frustration.

"Then _why_?" she exclaimed softly. "Why was it so hard for you to trust me?" She swiped at her cheeks, wiping away the moisture already staining them, even as she waved his coming protest away. "I know you said it was not about trust, that you were trying to keep me safe, but it _was_ about trust, Jethro! And I thought this could explain it… I would have understood—" Her words halted briefly, ceasing her rambling. She shook her head, her eyes hidden in shadow as her chin dipped. "But if that is not it, then I can't explain it. I can't make sense of it. And I do not think I ever will."

There was a note of bitter finality in her voice, and Gibbs felt his stomach drop out from under him. This was it then. She was finally going to cut him loose; she was going to forgo the challenge of trying to work through it. He didn't blame her—after all she'd been through, she deserved to be happy.

With careful understanding, Gibbs met her gaze when she looked up at him with sparkling eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was strong, and despite his heartbreak, he could not help but feel pride at her resilience.

"I do not think I can handle trying to fix this," she said, with barely a tremor to her voice. "Fix _us_. Not while I'm trying to stomach the fact that you brushed me aside for a reason I can't understand or appreciate. And until I do… _stomach_ this—I can't be with you."

Gibbs met her gaze with his own, and though he could see she was trying to keep herself steady, her words were punctuated by the smallest of sniffs, betraying her hurt. But then, slowly, her words began to register, and his own hurt faded, only to be replaced by the familiar glimmer of hope.

"I don't know when I will have accepted this," she continued, "and though I am hesitant to say never, I will not keep my life on hold until I do. I have already learned the hard way that sometimes there is not enough time for that. Not for either of us. "

Gibbs had been right—she was letting him go. She was ending things between them, just as he had predicted.

But even so, the lifting of his gut didn't fade. Because he heard words like _until_ and _but_… there was room for the future, if not the present, and that was a hell of a lot more than he expected. Or deserved.

Finally, Gibbs nodded in acceptance, keeping his expression schooled.

Her eyes drifted back to her lap, her hair falling over her shoulder as her head bowed once more.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice drifted up to him, suddenly quiet and fragile.

"I understand," Gibbs answered gently. She didn't answer, and he doubted his words gave her any comfort.

After a moment's pause, her fingers came up to touch the metal tag hanging from her neck, lifting it from beneath her shirt to let her fingertips drift over the stamped letters and numbers. Then, without a word, she pulled the chain over her neck before offering the memento to Gibbs.

"I would understand," she murmured, "if you wanted to take this back."

Wordlessly, Gibbs took the dog tag, his gaze fixed on the metal. It was warmed from its prolonged contact with her skin, and his fingers mimicked the motion her fingers had made, drifting over the writing. A flicker of hurt flashed across his awareness at the rejected gift, before he froze.

Not rejected, he realized. Returned.

To do with as he wished, to keep it to himself or give it to another woman. The same as she was attempting to do with his heart.

Gibbs slid from beneath the covers, moving to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She avoided his gaze, keeping her eyes on some vague point on the wall across from her until he reached out and took her hand in his.

When he pressed the metal tag back into her palm, brown eyes finally met his. He tried to look past the welling tears she too was trying to ignore, and maintained eye contact as he spoke.

"This is yours," he told her firmly, his voice authoritative and leaving no room for debate. "I love you, Ziva. This isn't going to change that. You do what you need to do, and when you're ready, I'll be waiting… Just like always."

Tears spilled over onto her cheeks once more, but she quickly wiped them away. Gibbs longed to help her, but he knew that such an intimate action would only make it harder. He knew that from experience. But to his surprise, it was her hand that came up to caress his cheek, as she looked deep into his eyes.

"Thank you," she said, and he knew that she meant it. He could've made it hard for her, fought her, for her, but by not doing so had allowed her to make her own decision as easily as possible. For the first time, doing nothing had been the right thing to do.

But then, to compound his shock, she leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his lips.

Gibbs received it, resisting the urge to turn his head to meet her full on. Her thumb brushed lightly across the skin of his cheek as she pulled back, looking once more into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly, his voice more plaintive than he would have liked.

The corners of her mouth twitched, as if she were trying to give him a smile, but couldn't quite manage it.

"I know," she returned. "But it is not enough. Not this time."

"I know." His words matched hers, his voice matched hers. Both sad, both accepting… at least of this. There was nothing more either of them could do.

"I love you," she whispered softly.

There was nothing he could say to that—she already knew his feelings. But hearing hers spoken aloud made his heart lighten ever so slightly, bolstered by that ever present tingle in his gut that told him not all hope was lost.

Not yet.

Finally, Ziva stood, clearing her throat as she did so. The moment was over; she'd done what she came here to do. She seemed almost ready to leave, but she hesitated, gazing at him inscrutably. Then, carefully, she reached up and unwound the light scarf from her neck.

Then, wordlessly, she offered it to him.

Gibbs looked first at the scarf, then at her, his brow creased in confusion. She read him easily—just as she always did—and shrugged.

"For the nightmares," she said simply.

Stunned silence followed, and in his shock Gibbs failed to make any move to accept the proffered cloth. After a moment, Ziva held it a little closer, encouraging him to grasp it.

"Take it," she prompted. "You need it more than I do."

Finally, wordlessly, Gibbs took the scarf from her fingers, pulling it to him with an almost reverent touch. His fingers brushed over hers in the process, a stolen touch that sent tingles up his spine, but she only smiled softly.

"I will see you at work," she said. And then she turned and left, her footsteps light as she vanished from the room—from _their_ room. A few moments later, he heard the front door close behind her, confirming her departure.

In the resounding silence, he lay back on his bed, swinging his legs back up onto the mattress. He stayed there for a long moment, fingering the scarf in his hands. He stared at the rich colors and the delicate fringe along the edge. It was definitely hers, in form and appearance both.

But still, it didn't explain why she had given it to him.

Thinking about his nightmare, his stomach churned uneasily. It had been too real for comfort, and played on the fears he'd tried to ignore while the investigation was ongoing. From the moment she'd joined Arthur Haskell at that street café, he'd been terrified something would go wrong… something would come up, or wouldn't pan out, and Ziva would be caught in the crossfire.

As he became increasingly absorbed in his thoughts, Gibbs was vaguely aware of his eyes growing heavy. But then suddenly, he found himself on a baseball field, more than a dozen girls spread out on the field before him, and their parents in the stands. And then there was the grill with a chain looped through its handle, with more propane than it should have.

Ziva recognized it… she knew what it meant. And she saw her partner standing too close, and before he could call out a warning, she was sprinting towards DiNozzo, her features set in a single-minded focus. Tony was her only thought, and even if Gibbs could squeeze a sound past his suddenly frozen vocal cords, she wouldn't hear him.

And then, as if in slow motion, he saw the grill burst into flame. But it didn't stop there. Slowly, a mushroom of fire billowed outward, hungrily reaching for DiNozzo who stood oblivious trying to get the girls off the field.

But before the fire could touch him, Ziva was there, pushing him down and away. The fire snatched her instead, engulfing her entirely before her body was launched forward, sending her flying to the grass barely a foot from her partner.

With a full body spasm, Gibbs awoke, only this time there was no warm hand on his shoulder, no gentle voice pulling back down to reality. He was alone in a dark room, on an otherwise empty bed that should have belonged to the both of them. In his mind's eye he could still see her smoldering jacket and could still smell the burnt flesh and hair.

Wearily, he reached up to wipe a hand across his tearing eyes—only to have a wash of flowers and spice fill his senses. Almost instantaneously, his heart rate slowed, and his muscles relaxed.

He glanced down at his hand, and saw the scarf Ziva had given him less than an hour before. He could almost still feel her warmth amongst its tight woven threads, and just for a moment, it was almost like touching _her_.

And in an instant, he was at ease.

Remembering her words as she'd offered the scarf to him echoed in his ears, and he grinned in appreciation, the horror of the dream rapidly fading in the wake of the familiar fragrance. Not just a fragrance… a scent.

Her scent.

Flowers and spice.

_For the nightmares_, she'd said. How she'd known the nature of his nightmare before was beyond him. But he wasn't altogether surprised. She'd always been able to read him—it was why she'd been able to trust him when Ari had tried to dupe her. Her abilities had always served her well, and this time, they'd served him well too.

But there was something else, something more than her skills or her trust. More than a nightmare and more than a scarf. More than tearful conversations in the dark, and more than a dog tag.

It was something he'd hoped for, something he'd almost taken for granted, until the possibility of not having it was staring him in the face.

It was a simple truth. A simple, beautiful truth that warmed him from the inside out, leaving him smiling in the wake of a chilling nightmare.

She loved him.

And he couldn't ask for more.


	63. A Lending Hand Pt 2

_A/N: By the gods! This took forever! But in my defense, the Halloween episode gave me absolutely nothing to work with (so I'm writing my own), and this isn't the only update scheduled to come out of Broken Arrow. Hopefully I get the others posted before the AMAZING-looking "enemies"-duo airs. Is anyone else super excited that Daddy David is coming back? For TWO episodes? I am ;)_

_Any whose, enjoy!_

* * *

McGee watched unobserved as the probationary agent continued to paw through the dumpster's contents. By now, her impatience and frustration from earlier no longer made her movements brisk and jerky. Instead they were graceful and even, and he knew that she had accepted her fate.

A grin spread across McGee's lips. Time was, he would be the one sorting through piles of garbage in search of evidence. It felt a little strange, for Ziva to be considered the Probie. For so many years she had been the capable—and intimidating—Mossad Liaison Officer, and for the most part exempt from the unofficial hazing that accompanied the role of least experienced team member.

Watching her now, it seemed a little late in the game—she already knew the ropes, and she was a good investigator in her own right. The hazing was in the name of tradition only; where true Probies needed the hazing to learn the basics and to get the chance to observe, she was simply doing hard labor for the sake of hard labor.

But to her credit, she was suffering it well.

McGee wondered if Mossad partook of similar rites of passage. She seemed to acknowledge the tradition—it was probably the only reason she put up with the torment in the first place. If he were in her shoes, he wasn't sure he'd be so accommodating.

That said, he'd stayed behind for a reason, instead of going back to the Navy Yard with the others.

He slid his fingers into a pair of latex gloves, and closed the distance between them with deliberate steps.

"Could you use another pair of hands over here?"

His voice carried easily over the quiet sidewalk, and he was rewarded with a nearly instant smile when she looked over her shoulder at his approach. She lifted her hands, offering him a half-rotted banana peel in one hand, and a soggy mess of _something_ in the other.

"I certainly am not about to say no to that," she answered lightly. She turned back to the dumpster. "This has not been pleasant."

McGee grinned. "I think that was kind of the point."

She glared at him good-naturedly as he came to stand next to her. "Yes, I did notice that. But you know, I must say, I was surprised that _you_ were the one to suggest that the task fall to me."

"Yeah, I kind of felt bad about that," he answered. He paused. "Actually, not really."

She waved him off. "I have tortured you enough over the years, McGee. Besides, a little trash is not as horrible a task as Tony could think up for me. So I suppose I actually owe you."

"Eh, I wouldn't go that far." McGee surveyed the progress she'd already made. "So, do you have a process going, or…"

Dark eyes blinked in surprise. "You were serious about helping?"

"Uh… yeah?" He didn't really mean for it to sound like a question, but her suspicion took him by surprise.

This time, he won a full-blown smile. "That is kind of you, McGee, but unnecessary. This is probie work, and you have already paid your... dues?" He nodded that she'd gotten in right and she grinned in muted triumph. Tilting her head ever so slightly, she met his gaze with a bright one of her own. "But I would enjoy the company."

He returned her grin. "All right," he agreed. "Company I can do." He stripped off his gloves, letting his hands breathe. He perched on the ledge next to the dumpster, settling himself out of Ziva's line of sight. "So, you got your first passport, huh?"

She didn't turn to look at him, instead focusing once more on the contents of the dumpster, but he could hear the smile in her voice when she responded. "Yes," she confirmed. "Well, not my first passport, exactly… Not even my first American passport. But, it is my first _legitimate_ American passport."

McGee tried not to grin. Of course she'd had an American passport—not much of a surprise there. But her pride in the honesty of this latest passport was tangible, and contagious.

"Well, I think it's really cool," he told her honestly. "I mean, that's a pretty big step."

She lifted her shoulder in a blasé shrug. "I do not know about that," she responded casually.

Huh. That wasn't exactly the response he'd expected. Then again, he really didn't know what to expect from this. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a serious conversation with her. But she'd been so exuberant in the squad room earlier, so eager to share the most recent step of her naturalization, that he suspected her new-found blase was either the result of Tony's less than supportive reactive or an attempt to rectify her temporary lapse in stoicism.

A moment of silence followed, as Ziva continued working, and he struggled to find a new route of conversation.

"You know, we haven't really spoken lately…"

"We speak nearly every day, McGee," she answered smoothly, her attention drifting to a suspicious looking item. A moment later she tossed it away. "And we spoke just this morning."

"I don't mean talking about the case, or about work. I mean _really_ talk."

"Talking is talking, McGee."

He ignored her. "How've you been, Ziva?"

Sometimes, some things couldn't be explained. Sometimes, it was better to simply jump in.

His abrupt question seemed to take her by surprise. And his suspicions were confirmed when he saw her eyes shutter, instinctively throwing up barriers against his direct approach.

"I have been well, McGee," she answered simply.

"Really? Because I've noticed you've seemed kind of… off, lately."

"I assure you McGee, any instance in which we have interacted, I have most definitely been _on_."

McGee blinked, but a moment later decided to not think about the fun Tony could have had at that statement. He plowed ahead undaunted. "What I mean is that you haven't exactly seemed yourself."

"How do you mean?"

"You haven't smiled as much."

His observation was met with sudden silence, as even her hands stilled at his words. "And you've seemed tense around us, guarded… Though I suppose with Tony around trying to hack into your email, I probably would be too, if I were you. But for a while there it seemed like you were really happy, and now it seems like you're trying to hide from something."

He glanced over at his companion, only to find her gaze glued to the decimated apple core in her hand. It didn't take a genius to realize that he'd struck a nerve.

"Look, Ziva, I'm not going to pry," he told her gently. "That's not my job, or my right. But I'm happy to listen if you need someone to talk to. I don't want you to feel like you have anything to hide from _me_. I won't pass judgment, Ziva. The only thing I care about is you feeling safe and happy."

For a long moment, silence fell over the dumpster. She offered no response, and he had said his piece. He knew she'd heard it, and sometimes, there simply wasn't an answer to give to something like that. He knew that, and accepted it. As he said, he wasn't one to pressure or pry.

But then, Ziva began moving again, keeping her hands busy by resuming her task of sorting the garbage.

"There is something, Tim."

Her voice was low, and for a minute McGee wasn't sure he had actually heard her. But when he glanced back at her, the sparkle in her eyes had disappeared, leaving behind a shadow that had been carefully hidden not moments ago.

"But it is difficult to talk about," she continued softly.

McGee let her words sink in, considering his response carefully. "Sometimes, it's better to just start talking," he said. "Like my freewriting. If you just let it start flowing, the words will come, and you don't really need to know _how_."

There was another long moment of hesitation, but McGee expected it. For all of her strengths, opening up was not one of her fortes, and he doubted it ever would be. He blamed Eli David for that.

"Tim…" Her voice was soft, delicate. "Have you ever had problems with trust?"

McGee stiffened. Once again, she had thrown a wrench into his supposedly nonexistent expectations.

"I'm not sure what you mean…" He said slowly, rolling her words around in his head. "You don't trust someone?"

"No," she responded softly. "Yes. I don't know…" She shook her head, as if dismayed at her own confusion.

He remained silent, knowing she would be able to find the right words if given the time.

Luckily, she didn't leave him hanging for long.

"Perhaps I am asking the wrong question," she said carefully. She sighed, but continued to sift through garbage. "I suppose what I mean is… what makes a relationship last?"

McGee nearly choked on his own breath. _Definitely_ not what he'd been expecting. "I assume you mean a romantic relationship?"

Ziva nodded distractedly, keeping most of her focus on the dumpster. "All the magazines say that trust is the most important factor in a relationship, but to be completely honest… I have never been in a position to experience it for myself."

Her tone was dull, almost… ashamed. Hearing it tore McGee's heart.

"Ziva…"

"I have had many relationships," she continued, beginning to ramble. "But I never felt any desire to bring trust into the equation. There was never any need, because I knew they would leave eventually, and I was fine with that. Michael was the first time I actually expected anything from a man, and, as you know, that did not exactly work out."

"No," he agreed. "I guess not."

"But now I am afraid I do not know what to expect." She paused, and McGee froze, waiting for her to pose the question he knew was coming. "How do you balance morals with desire?"

McGee gulped. This was definitely not his area of expertise.

"Look, Ziva," he said warily, sensing he was getting in over his head. "I might not be the best person to talk to about this. I mean, I haven't exactly had the best track record as far as a love life goes. I mean, they've either lost interest, died, or turned out to be either insane or international assassins, so…"

Ziva gave a soft sigh, then squared her shoulders.

"You are right," she said solemnly. Her tone was suddenly hard, detached, and McGee knew her defenses had come back up. She'd tried to confide in him, and he'd failed, miserably. "I should not have burdened you with my personal problems."

_Damn it_. And this just after he got finished telling her he would always be there to listen.

"Is this about that guy in Miami?" he asked finally, attempting to restart the conversation. When he received no response—or even an indication that she'd heard—he pressed on. "How's that going by the way?"

After a long moment of silence, he heard a heavy sigh. "Not well," she confessed finally.

"You don't trust him?"

Ziva's movements stilled. "No. Yes. I mean, I do. Of course I do—it's just… I think I may trust him too much."

McGee shot her a sidelong glance. "And that freaks you out?" When narrowed eyes flashed in his direction, he quickly continued. "Hey, no judgment, remember? I'm just trying to get all the facts."

"Like a good investigator," she teased, her tension easing slightly.

"Of course," McGee said. "Besides, I get why you might be weirded out… Even I sometimes feel amazed—and freaked—by the amount of information Abby can get out of me. I mean, there's just something about her that makes me want to spill my guts to her—" He paused, cutting himself off. "But we were talking about you."

"It's all right, McGee."

"Yeah. But look, trusting someone, it's scary sometimes, but that can be a good thing. Giving yourself over to someone, relinquishing control of even just one secret- it can be terrifying. But you can't let that fear override everything else."

Out of the corner of her eye, he saw a sad smile cross her features. "As surprising as this might sound," she said carefully, "that wasn't the problem this time. For the first time, that level of trust didn't scare me."

McGee blinked in surprise. "Well, that's great! It is, right? Sorry, that sounds pretentious... But if your goal was to open up more, get rid of that trust-nobody-mentality, a serious relationship is definitely a step in the right direction."

"Thanks, Tim." Her words were low and hesitant, belying her apprehension. They were delving deep into dangerous territory."But, I think… he does not trust me."

This time, it was McGee who paused. He turned to her. "What? Really?"

She grinned with a brief roll of her eyes. "Yes, believe it or not."

"Does he think you're keeping secrets? Is it about you being Mossad? Does he even know about Mossad?"

"Mossad is not the problem," she answered vaguely. "As I said, it is not me. I trust him, but with him… it's like there is a threshold, and he only lets me in so far. But whenever I reach that point, it is like running into a brick wall. He does not trust me."

McGee let the words sink in. He was starting to get the picture.

"So, do you want advice on what to do about it?" he asked. "Or have you already decided, and you want validation?"

Silence reigned for a long moment.

"I have already ended it."

McGee nodded, even though she couldn't see it. It made sense. "Trust is the last thing you wanted to have to fight for," he supplied gently. "I can understand that."

"That was what I told myself," she answered. "After everything with my father, and with Tony and Michael, I thought that if I could be honest, that if I could trust, then anyone else I wanted to be with would be able to trust in return. And when he didn't, I told myself that life was too short to try to entice him into trusting me, and I certainly was not going to beg for it. I was tired of having to fight tooth and nail for something that everyone else seems to have naturally, with no problem at all."

"And now… you're having second thoughts?"

She shrugged. "He loves me," she admitted. "I never doubted that. But I do not know if that alone is enough." For a moment, she fell silent. "I think about him a lot."

"You miss him."

"More than I thought I would," she admitted softly.

McGee tried to keep from smiling, but knew he didn't succeed entirely. Because, if he was hearing this properly, then it meant that Ziva—Ziva David, former assassin extraordinaire—had fallen, and fallen hard. In a moment of Tony-like glee, he felt an irresistible urge to find out more about this guy who had worked his way past Ziva's insecurities and doubts to snare her heart. It would have to have been someone special.

But that wasn't why he was there. This was about Ziva, not her mystery man.

"Well, Ziva," he started carefully, settling back against the stone. "I'm still not the best person to be giving advice, but I'll pass on something my dad said once…" Ziva paused in her task, and turned to face him fully for the first time since starting the conversation.

He looked her dead in the eye.

"_Never succumb to doubt, when it has the chance to become regret_."

For a long moment, she didn't respond. She blinked once, and McGee could see her mulling over the words. Eventually, her brow furrowed.

"I'm not sure I know what that means," she said finally.

"It means, sometimes, the mind can work double overtime. And sometimes, decisions are made that eventually turn into regret. When that happens, sometimes we need to let our hearts tell our minds to shove it."

Ziva's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He grinned sheepishly.

"Directly quoted from my Dad," he added belatedly. But he was rewarded with an honest smile gracing her features. Her eyes crinkled, shining brightly in the midday sun. The subtle strain he'd noticed the past few months was suddenly gone, and McGee smiled back unabashedly, drinking in the sight of his friend's obvious mirth.

However, he wasn't really sure if it was because of his dad's advice, or his dad's phrasing.

Honestly, though, he didn't really care.

Though her smile eventually faded, the gleam in her eye didn't, even when she turned her attention back to the dumpster. And even from his vantage point behind her and off to her left, it was obvious to him that she was more relaxed than she had been since Gibbs had sent her to Florida. Her shoulders were less tight, and her movements just a little bit more fluid.

He didn't know if his words—or rather, his dad's—would do her any good in the long run. He didn't know if she would take his advice to heart, if she would act on her impulse to fix things with Mister Miami. For all he knew, he'd only told her it was okay to miss the guy. For now though, it seemed she felt better, and that was enough for him.

And when the trash had been sufficiently investigated—with absolutely nothing of consequence found—and they were walking back towards the car, she casually bumped his shoulder with her own.

He sent a curious gaze in her direction, to find another, smaller smile shyly curling her lips.

"Thank you, Tim."

Her eyes slid towards him briefly, but playfully darted away again before he could catch her gaze. When nothing else was offered, he realized nothing else was needed.

His shoulder bumped hers back.

"Any time."


	64. Life's a Dance

_A/N: Here we go, the second of three tags to Broken Arrow. And it's Tuesday! Enemies Foreign tonight. Oh, it better be good._

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* * *

_

Holy hell.

Of all the dresses she could have worn to a date with DiNozzo Senior, she had to choose _that_ one? Black, slinky, more skin than anyone would know what to do with… and still, she looked classy as ever.

To say the sight of her in that dress had _affected_ him would be a massive understatement. To say he wanted to bring her home, rip off the dress, and relegate said dress to the floor of his bedroom while he ravished its wearer would be slightly more accurate, but still wholly inadequate to describe the desire that coursed through his veins.

But the fact that she was wearing it to plant a bug in the home of a potential murderer and black arms dealer was enough to curb his enthusiasm with the efficacy of a cold shower. Thank god for that, seeing as he was currently standing in MTAC, with not only the Director but a Navy Vice Admiral. And without the distraction of lust, his gut churned with the feeling that they were missing something.

Maybe not missing something specific, but that there was a decisive wild card involved with the operation. He only hoped the wild card didn't turn out to be Senior.

Because if something happened to Ziva because of him, Tony's dad or no, he was a dead man.

Jealousy burned in his gut as he recalled the man's behavior towards Ziva. Smooth talking, exploitive, irritating son of a bitch that he was, he somehow managed to win everyone over.

Even Abby was a fan, despite the fact that she was the one who was usually most sympathetic to his senior field agent's emotional distress. And every time Gibbs saw Ziva smile at the older man, or laugh at some joke Senior murmured in her ear, he felt the rage grow a little bit more.

Because he might have told her that he would wait for her, and he might remind himself every day that it was her life to do with what she wished… but it killed him to see her suffering the attentions of another guy.

Because it cut him to the core to see that he was no longer the man to be the one to whisper in her ear, or to escort her to a dinner party—even in the name of a case.

He had to remind himself that even if they hadn't split, he most likely would not have been the one to escort her tonight.

Apprehension gripped him as he monitored the surveillance feed. Only those in the van could communicate with Ziva directly, but her mic was being fed to MTAC, as was her broach camera. Tony and McGee had sensed the impending danger too, when the arms dealer's dark eyes remained firmly fixed to Ziva's form.

Gibbs had been on enough missions to know what that stare meant.

She'd been made.

Her cover was blown, and all she had for backup was a decrepit old man whose sole skill seemed to be snake charming. Luckily, Gibbs' team was skilled enough to start moving in even before the camera feed cut out.

But he should have known better. There was never any reason to worry. He should have believed his own words when he told the Vice Admiral she was a weapon in herself.

A moment later he got word that both Ziva and Senior were safe, and later he would read that, together, the two of them had worked together to get the perps restrained before the reinforcements even showed up.

He didn't get a chance to see her until the next morning, after everything was said and done. Senior was preparing to depart. With the same burning jealousy from the night before, he watched as Ziva smiled happily at something uttered in her ear, and Senior's hands drifted a little too far south as he hugged her good bye.

When the man called for his son to follow like a loyal pup, Gibbs couldn't say he was sorry to see him go.

He could only hope the bastard stayed away for good this time.

As the elevator dinged shut, Gibbs turned on his heel to move back to his desk. But a pair of dark brown eyes caught his attention as he turned, and he paused, staring back at his newest agent with a carefully schooled expression.

Even with his caution, she seemed to see right past his mask to spot his sentiments on the whole thing plain as day.

For a moment, he thought she might give him a scolding arch of the eyebrow, or a demonstrative purse of her lips to convey her displeasure. But to his surprise, instead of stern reproach, her eyes sparkled, and a curl of her lips belied her amusement.

And then, so quick he almost missed it, she threw him a coy wink.

And just like that his suspicions were assuaged, as with a single twitch of her eye she told him that she was in fact _not_ falling for the old DiNozzo charm.

Gibbs acknowledged that in all likelihood, she was humoring him, sensing his obvious lingering feelings for her. But he was reassured that she was just humoring Anthony DiNozzo Sr. as well, and that alone was enough for him.

The tension in his gut eased, and quite involuntarily, he felt his lips curling in response. Taking a long swig of his coffee, he gave a brief eye roll in response before continuing on to his desk. He sat, and busied himself with the work that had piled up on his desk.

But as he made himself busy, he could have sworn he heard a soft snort of laughter from the next desk over.


	65. Learn As You Go

_A/N: Here we go! This should appease some of the fluffy hearts out there... Setting the stage for Ziva to get some TLC in the near future, it's gonna be awesome. Reviews rock my world!_

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"All right, guys, I think it's time I took Abby home." McGee's voice was fairly shouting to be heard over the bustle of the crowd at the bar.

They'd come to celebrate the completion of a case—and in Tony's case, to celebrate the departure of Senior—and for once, Gibbs had decided to come with them.

Perhaps, if things were different, he might have passed up the opportunity. But as things were, he found himself willing to suffer through a night of semi-drunken conversation if it meant being able to spend more time with Ziva.

To her credit, if she suspected his motivations—which she probably did, given her propensity for reading him like an open book—she gave no indication. And to his satisfaction, she said nothing when they found themselves seated next to one another in the booth the team had commandeered for the night.

For his part, he took silent comfort from her proximity, and did his best to not react to every brush of her hand against his when they both reached for their drinks at the same time.

He didn't miss the sly looks Abby gave him from across the table, but she too managed to maintain her decorum, even as the night progressed and the drinks kept coming.

Ziva limited herself to only one mojito, he noticed, a testament to her continued sensitivity to the effects of alcohol. But no one noticed, other than the occasional offer to buy her another, which she politely declined.

But now the night was drawing to a close, and the bar was slowly clearing out. Abby was more than a little tipsy, and Gibbs nodded to McGee—the night's designated driver—who was trying to gently guide the scientist out the front door.

"But Timmy, I don't wanna go yet!" Abby protested. "Come one, how often do we get everyone together like this? Let's stay a little longer!"

"We have work tomorrow, Abs," McGee reminded her patiently. "You'll be blaming me in the morning if we don't go now, and you know it."

"I'm leaving too, Abby," DiNozzo spoke up, slapping a twenty on the table as he got to his feet. With a sigh, he straightened his jacket and refastened the top button—in an instant, the responsible agent had returned. "As much as I might look it, I'm not as young as I used to be."

"Yay! You can share a cab with us!"

McGee arched a brow in Abby's direction. "I'm driving you home, Abs."

"And now you can drive Tony home too! It'll be fun! We can play car games, like on a road trip! Hey!" Her face lit up in excitement. "Let's go on a road trip, guys!"

Tony gave his friend a grin. "Love to, but we work tomorrow, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Abby's features fell slightly. "Oh, well. Maybe next week."

"That's the spirit, Abs." McGee looped an arm around her waist. "Let's go, okay?" He looked back to Ziva and Gibbs, both of whom had yet to make a move to leave. "You guys need a ride?"

Ziva was the first to respond. "I am fine, McGee, thank you. I wish to stay a while longer."

Gibbs nodded in agreement. "Take good care of her," he instructed firmly, nodding towards the unbalanced Goth hanging onto McGee's arm. "Call if you get into trouble."

"Sure thing, boss," McGee responded. "See you tomorrow. Ziva…"

She lifted a hand in farewell, and then the three friends were gone, leaving Gibbs alone with Ziva.

Silence fell over them, besides the music being piped through the sound system overhead. Gibbs cast a glance towards Ziva, trying to get a read on her. But Ziva didn't seem to notice.

Her fingers traced lines in the drops of water that had accumulated on the side of her glass, and there was a furrow in her brow that told him she was deep in thought. Her gaze was unfocused, heavy even, but there was a lift to her lips that could almost be a smile.

He nudged her lightly with an elbow.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, when brown eyes looked up at him in surprise. "You've been quiet all night."

She gave him a small smile. "Just thinking," she answered.

"About what?"

For a long moment, she didn't answer. He probably shouldn't have asked, but he couldn't help himself. He knew something had been bothering her since the altercation at the party, and since the takedown itself was a success, he knew that whatever it was that was on her mind ran just a little bit deeper than the obvious.

In the end, old habits died hard, and his first instinct was concern for her wellbeing, whether it be physical or emotional.

But whether or not she allowed him in was up to her, and he knew it. So when she hesitated, he was fully expecting to be politely ignored.

"I was thinking about the case." Her voice came as a surprise, but one that quickly faded. He looked at her, his full attention zeroing in on the fingers that continued to draw shapes on her glass.

"If that bastard made you uncomfortable—"

"Oh, please, Gibbs. He's harmless." She grinned. "Quite shameless as well, but harmless."

"Then what is it?" He didn't deny her claim. If Senior was anything, he was a crook. But not a predator.

Ziva gave a soft sigh. "Agah Bayar," she revealed finally. "The arms dealer Mayfield was meeting with…"

"Yeah?"

"He knew my name." Her voice was calm. "He knew my name, but I did not know his until McGee told me." Finally, dark eyes lifted to meet his. "Do you know what that means?"

Gibbs paused for a moment, leaning forward on his arms as he rolled the question over in his head. "It could mean he has connections… He could know more than he's letting on."

She shook her head, still smiling. "It means that I made the right decision."

"About what?"

"Leaving Mossad. Coming here." Her smile grew just a little bit. "Coming home."

There was no regret in her words, no sense of longing. She didn't mourn the loss of her homeland, not tonight. It was a welcome realization, but Gibbs couldn't figure where it was coming from.

But lucky for him, Ziva seemed to sense his consternation, and came to his rescue.

"It means that my capture in Somalia had far-reaching consequences. My identity is no longer hidden—even if I had remained with Mossad, my ability to function as an operative has been compromised. I would have been lucky to get a desk job, if we caught the leak in time. If we hadn't, I probably would have died in the field." His gut churned at the thought, but she grinned. "If there was ever a doubt in my mind about becoming an agent… It's gone now."

Gibbs grinned. "That's good," he said simply. He watched as her grin suddenly turned dazzling.

"Yes. It is."

Almost as if it had a mind of its own, his hand slid across the smooth surface of the table top. His fingers curled around hers, and to his pleasant surprise, she returned the gesture. Months ago, she would have shifted closer to him, settling against his side and pulling his arm over her shoulders in a casual embrace. But now, she remained where she was, and the only contact was that of their now intertwined fingers.

It wasn't much, but at that moment, it was more than he'd hoped for.

"Of course, it also means that we will have to be careful about which undercover operations I undertake," she continued. "If Bayar knew my identity, then it stands to reason that other potential targets of investigation will know, and I could compromise the operation."

His fingers tightened on hers, drawing her gaze back to him. "Compromising the operation would be the last thing I'm concerned about," he told her firmly. "Your safety comes first, Ziver. Always has."

And suddenly the conversation shifted to something more—something deeper. He felt it in his gut, and he knew she knew as well when her eyes darkened. But her features remained calm, and a moment later she was giving him a tight-lipped smile.

"Either way, it is something we need to keep in mind," she told him, pushing her drink away as she got to her feet. She slipped into her coat, and then turned back to him. She hesitated, and for a moment Gibbs got the feeling she was going to say something important. But she seemed to think better of it, when she gave him an honest, easy smile. "I will see you tomorrow."

He held her gaze for a long moment, and the need to say something gripped him as well. Only, he had nothing to offer her. In the end, he could only nod, tearing his gaze away to stare at the beer in front of him. "Yeah," he breathed. "Tomorrow."

"Good night, Gibbs."

"'Night."

He looked up again just in time to see her push the door open, quickly disappearing into the night. He stared for a moment as the door swung closed after her, before finally getting to his feet himself.

The satisfaction of successfully closing the case had faded, leaving his chest in a familiar vise. When he slid his own twenty onto the table next to DiNozzo's, his movements were slow and deliberate—he was in no hurry to return to an empty home.

Stepping into the cool night air was refreshing, after spending hours in the smoke-fogged bar. It cleared his mind, and the tightness in his chest eased just enough to take the edge off.

It was getting harder.

He'd meant what he'd told her that night, when he promised to give her space. But seeing her every day, functioning as well as she always had—it was gut-wrenching.

But what could he do? He couldn't pull away more than he already had. Even if it was possible, even if he could somehow pretend not to care—that would hurt even more.

In fact, it would damn near kill him.

He unlocked the door to his Challenger and slid behind the wheel, giving a heavy sigh as he did so.

He couldn't pull away any more than he could pull her closer, so that left him with only one road left to take.

He would go home, and spend the night alone, waiting for dawn to come. And then he would go into the Navy Yard early, and he would pretend to work so that when she came in—always a good half hour before the others showed up—it wouldn't be so obvious that he was there just to share those few minutes alone with her.

And if his luck held out, her eyes would meet his just long enough for him to know that she saw through the pretense. But then she would try not to smile, but the gleam in her arm always told him the truth. And she'd sit at her desk, and he at his, and they would get to work.

And then, just like every other day, the dance would begin again.


	66. Confusion and Concerns

_A/N: Here's the first out of a possible multiple updates for Enemies Foreign. Because lets just face it- the ep is just begging for it. Anywho, this chapter was a little difficult to write, so constructive criticism is greatly appreciated._

_Enjoy!_

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Gibbs had staked his reputation—hell, the _agency's_ reputation—on Ziva being to handle herself when her father showed up. That being said, he'd then proceeded to do everything in his power to keep the reunion between father and daughter from happening.

He told himself and the higher ups that it was for Eli David's own protection, and in a way he supposed he was telling the truth. But he wasn't altogether certain he was trying to protect the man from the three reported terrorists that had snuck into the country in anticipation of the Mossad Director's impromptu visit. If he were completely honest with himself, he was more concerned with what would happen when the two Davids ran into each other again.

No, Ziva probably wouldn't stoop so low as to cause physical bodily harm to the visiting Director. She wouldn't need to anymore, because nowadays she only inflicted such pain in self defense, and Eli couldn't touch her now that she was both an official citizen and a special agent.

Or maybe, Gibbs was more concerned about what he himself would do.

He'd managed to reel himself in when it was just him and Eli. But if he had to watch Ziva reach out to her father, only to be spurned by the one man whose favor she wanted most, or to see the bastard treating her like a nonperson when she was twice the person the man could ever hope to be… He wasn't sure he'd be able to maintain the mask of professionalism he'd been wearing for the past couple days.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to see her heart break if she was ignored or treated any less than she deserved. He wasn't sure what he would do, if he had to see Eli destroy what little happiness still filled Ziva's heart.

In the end, he had succeeded in avoiding the situation altogether. He hadn't been there when the inevitable confrontation came. He hadn't been there when Ziva had spoken to her father for the first time since he sent her on her last mission. Since he had given the order to complete the mission, no matter the cost.

He hadn't been there to catch her tears, when Eli reacted exactly how he'd predicted he would.

And god, how he hated himself for that.

He hadn't met up with her until the kitchen had opened fire on her, pinning her to the wall even as she screamed to Hadar to get her father to safety. For a long moment, Gibbs was afraid it had taken one too many shots to take out the automated weapons system. He was afraid that when the smoke cleared, he would be faced with his worst nightmare— Ziva bleeding, dying or dead, on the kitchen floor.

But relief came in the form of her silhouette standing tall through the clearing fog, and he could breathe for a short moment before she disappeared once more, this time chasing after the security detail that had ushered the two Directors to safety.

Once again, he was late to the party, following after her just in time to find her standing over the final terrorist, a flaming taxi at the end of the alley. With a silent look of communication, she continued to cover the Palestinian while he checked for a pulse. But he only confirmed what he had already known—there was no way in hell Ziva could have been anything less than lethal at that range.

She was quiet as the other agents came pouring in to secure the scene. She answered the brief questions that were asked on location, but it wasn't long before Gibbs was escorting her up to the conference room. The others let them go, knowing that there was a distinct possibility that there was still a danger to the meeting itself.

Liat's words echoed in Gibbs' mind: One shooter doesn't mean one gun. The guy could have planted something, could have introduced something into the ventilation system.

But their concern is ultimately short-lived as they discover the meeting hadn't even paused its proceedings. They've already swept for bugs, bombs, and biohazards—there is nothing left for the two agents to do but wait. Finally, they had a chance to talk.

With one look, he took in her uneven breaths, her downcast gaze, and the slight slump to her shoulders that belied her discomfort.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice low enough that only she would hear. "You okay?"

For a long moment, she didn't respond. He waited, gave her time, and watched as she shifted her weight where she stood, her head still bowed. That alone was enough to tell him something was wrong, but when she almost nodded her head yes, then shook her head no, all doubt was chased from his mind.

"Ziver…"

Something in his voice must have gotten through to her, because finally, she lifted her head. Dark brown eyes sparkled with unshed tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks. But she didn't blink, and they remained precariously gathered against her lashes as she looked up at him. Never before had she ever looked as vulnerable as she did right now, and Gibbs knew it was all she could to keep herself under control.

Wordlessly, he gently took her by the arm and began to guide her away from the open door of the conference room. She came without protest, pressing against his side as they made their way to a vacant hallway around the corner, and out of earshot of the agents standing guard.

The moment they were alone he turned to face her, letting his hands linger on her shoulders, keeping her steady as he dipped his head, trying to recapture her gaze. But her stoicism—yet one more thing he could blame her father for—kept her eyes averted as she tried to reign her emotions in.

He understood her need to remain objective. He empathized with her desire to remain professional, especially in the company of such high ranking agents nearby. But the fact of the matter was—she couldn't.

Either the debacle downstairs, or the car ride with her father had rattled her so badly that her mask was crumbling. The eyes that had so mournfully stared up at him a moment ago were not those of the hardened ex-Mossad assassin she'd been trained to be. They had been the eyes of the little girl who had never had the chance to know her father. Who perhaps never would.

The last time he seen eyes so bereft, they had been young and blue, begging him not to leave.

Even now, in another abandoned daughter, what they meant was undeniable.

She was heartbroken.

"C'mere," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. And then he was pulling her close, enveloping her in his arms as the tears in her eyes finally spilled over.

For the first moments, she moved closer, melding her body to his in search of the comfort she craved. But when her hands came up—to return the embrace, he thought—she pushed away from him with a jarring shove, propelling herself out of his reach.

To say he was taken aback would be an understatement, but he let her go, let her have her space. She began to pace, like she often did when agitated. But then she halted abruptly, rooted to the spot in an instant. And just like that, she fell absolutely still.

Gibbs kept a wary distance, unable to tear his gaze away. This was something he had yet to encounter with Ziva. He'd thought he'd known her reactions, all her reactions, to any given combination of factors. Evasion was her front defense, followed closely by pacing when she wanted to run away but wouldn't let herself.

Even when she managed to sit or remain close to him during a serious conversation, she was never completely still. She bounced a knee or twisted her hands, full of nervous energy she couldn't contain. And when she was too upset to even talk to him, she took her emotions out on a punching bag or a hapless sparring partner. Never in his years of knowing her had he ever seen her completely and utterly still.

A deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach sent his pulse racing as he took in her sudden lack of movement. It didn't feel right—something was wrong… very, very wrong. Her profile stood out against the neutral beige of the hallway behind her, and her pulled back hair left her features clearly visible. Her cheeks were still damp, but her expression was no longer anguished, and her eyes were not filled with pain.

Panic gnawed at his gut, and in two brisk strides he was in front of her once more, looking deep into eyes that were suddenly empty and vacant, searching for the spark he'd always found there. He couldn't.

She was blank, hollow. And that sent a shiver of fear down his spine unlike anything he had felt before.

"Ziva," he voiced carefully, probingly. She didn't respond. Her eyes didn't flicker, and she didn't pull away when he took her arm in hand and shook it lightly. There was… nothing. No reaction, no recognition.

No Ziva.

Icy fingers of fear curled around his heart. "Ziva, look at me," he urged, barely managing to keep his voice low enough that the others couldn't hear. "C'mon, Ziver… Look at me!"

His hand came up to touch her cheek, and finally, she blinked.

In an instant, her eyes focused, and lightning-quick, his hand was instinctively knocked away before he could even touch her skin. She jerked away from him, obviously startled out of… _whatever_ stupor had overcome him. The block stung his hand, but Gibbs barely felt it beyond the wash of relief as the anger and hurt returned.

He almost smiled when she began to pace the width of the hallway, angrily dashing the tears from her cheeks. He let her have a few moments, but when she didn't speak, he broke the silence for her, knowing it would not be long before they were called back to the conference room.

"Talk to me."

Dark eyes—dark, but blessedly bright—looked up at him in surprise, before they narrowed into angry slits. But she wasn't angry at him, he knew. Well, at least he hoped not. Again, she didn't immediately speak, so he led off the conversation.

"Your father…" was as far as he got before a lack of pre-planning and an angry Ziva made further speech inconsequential.

"—is a pompous, self-serving, manipulative bastard," she snarled, her voice strangled by her fury. "I talked to him, did you know that? I made the effort, I tried to speak with him, in the garage. There was no one else there, besides Amit and Vance, but they already know more about him than I ever will, he had nothing to hide from them." Her head twisted towards him, her gaze lifted from the carpet she was wearing a hole in. "But do you know what he said?"

Gibbs had a sinking suspicion. But he humored her anyway. "What?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No explanation, no apology, no overture of goodwill. No. Just a few sharp words of condescension. Even after I insulted him—which coming from anyone else would have at least elicited a death warrant. But me, _me_ he treats like a child, bringing up ponies and childhood disappointments. And he uses Tali's name as a weapon, because he knows _that_ was when I stopped caring about being happy. Because it was _my_ choice to lead the life I have, a choice I made when I buried my baby sister."

The words came fierce and quick, and her eyes were full of fire, though they only lingered on Gibbs for brief moments at a time. They were as restless as her feet, which had yet to break their brisk strides across the hall—three steps in one direction, three in the other.

"How dare he," she muttered. Her eyes flashed up to him again, the growl returning to her voice. "How _dare_ he throw Tali's name around so cavalierly. He has no right. He didn't hunt down that cell, seeking revenge as he would have for any of his loyal soldiers. _I_ was the one that spent months tracking their every move, slowly picking them off one by one until I worked my way up to the leaders. _I_ avenged her death, while he did nothing."

And then, just as suddenly as she had stopped before, she drew to a halt once more. Only this time, Gibbs' immediate concern was assuaged when he noticed her shoulders remained tense, almost quivering under an invisible burden. Her fists were clenched, but this time tightly enough he would have thought she'd draw blood, if he hadn't known she kept her nails short for that very reason—it wouldn't do to draw her own blood when punching someone.

And the tears continued to fall, only now she didn't bother to hide them or wipe them away. She let them trail down her cheeks and drip from her chin, though her breath remained as steady as she could possibly keep it. No heartrending sobs, no gasps for air against the waves of emotion she wasn't used to feeling… Just tears.

"He didn't fight for her," she whispered, her voice hoarse and thick. "With him, the loss of a single Israeli life would be enough cause to wipe out an entire town across the border, if that town was rumored to be harboring the enemy. He says he has responsibilities I cannot fathom, though for years those responsibilities were my own as well. I killed, I fought, I sacrificed—I defended my homeland, just as he does. But when it is his family, he refuses to react. Even for Tali."

She drew the back of her hand across her eyes before pressing against her brow, her other hand propping against her hip, as if bracing herself. Her eyes closed, her arms and fingers shaking under the strain.

"And now, he will not speak with me. He will not even _fight_ with me, because I am simply not worth the effort. I never was. Neither was Tali, and Ari… I do not even know what Ari was to him. But as far as Eli David is concerned, I—I might as well be still lost in the desert."

Her voice broke, and a new flood of tears spilled past her lashes. Gibbs stepped forward, his own brow furrowing in concern and anger.

"Don't say that." That was not a concept he wanted to think about. It scared him too much.

"It's true," she stated bluntly, her voice cold. "He did not look for me. He did not worry. Malachai only came—over a month after my rescue, I might add— to reclaim an asset, an asset who had enough information to make Mossad look bad. And then… and then you claimed me, and he did nothing. He did not try to contact me, or to convince me I belonged with him."

"Would you have changed your mind?" Gibbs asked gently. "Would you have gone back to Mossad, if he had?"

"No," came the brisk response. Gibbs was glad to hear absolutely no ounce of hesitation. "Of course not. But—" Her voice caught her throat, and she closed her eyes again. Gibbs waited patiently.

When her eyes opened once more, they looked up to the ceiling, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"But he fights for every Israeli. I was an Israeli. He would fight for anyone and their mother, but he did not fight for me." She scoffed abruptly, the sound ripping deep from her throat. "And _Hadar_… I have never seen anyone more blinded by my father than him! You know what he said to me? He said, _He keeps his heart hidden for a reason_. Can you believe that? For a reason, what reason? Because if he shows any feelings for me whatsoever, I may be endangered? That I might become a target for his enemies? That didn't stop him from sending me on missions—it _certainly_ didn't stop him from assigning me to the Kidon unit in Michael's place. And if he was so concerned for my welfare, as his _daughter_, then where was he for three goddamn months when I was lost?"

And just like that, her temporary, exasperated mirth disappeared, and the heartbreak resurfaced.

"He fights for everyone else, Gibbs," she said, her voice now a whisper. "He fights for a nation but he will not fight for me." He caught a glimpse of heavy, watery eyes before they looked once more to the carpet. "I am nothing to him—I am dead to him, though I have done more for him than anyone else. He will not fight for _me._" Her lips trembled, and her hand came up to cover them in shame. But she could not stop the tears, nor could she hide the devastation in her voice as she spoke through her fingers. "Why… I do not…" Her words came in short, stuttered gasps. "I have done… _everything_… but he—"

Her fingers left her lips to cover her eyes just as her expression crumpled, and the first sob wracked her shoulders. And it was all the opening Gibbs needed.

Without a word, he stepped into her, and she was in his arms before he even had a chance to pull her close. Her arms wrapped around him, even as his own found their own purchase, covering her as completely as they could. She shuddered under his touch, crying into his shoulder as the disappointment and hurt and frustration roared past her sundered defenses. It wasn't long before he felt his shirt grow damp against his skin, but he didn't dare move, didn't even think to protest.

His hand cupped the back of her bare neck, and his thumb traced soothing circles against her skin. Rocking her gently, swaying ever so slightly from side to side, he felt his own emotions bubbling to the surface. First and foremost was pride—pride in her, pride in the strength she'd shown in even trying to breach the wall of silence between her and her father in the first place.

And then came the anger, the overwhelming desire to wipe the aloof, superior mask right off the bastard's face. The indignation of having to remind the man of his own daughter's name, and barely managing to keep from telling Eli just how beautifully his daughter had flourished since escaping from beneath Mossad's thumb.

But on the heels of that overwhelming fury, he felt the gentle wash of warmth that filled him from head to toe. A warmth whose source was now trembling against his chest, her fingers gripping the back of sport coat as if trying to pull herself even closer. It was the sense of everything being intrinsically right, for a brief, tenuous moment, all because she was in his arms, and he in hers.

He knew in his gut that there were still clouds on the horizon, that their day was not quite over yet. But for that moment he didn't care. They would deal with that when they came to it, just as they were expected to, and just as they always have. But right then, the only thing he cared about was her.

She was all that mattered.


	67. Reassurances

_A/N: Here's a sweet little tidbit. I dunno how it fits into the canonical timeline, but if it doesn't work into Enemies Domestic coming up, I'll just scoot it on over to Something Extra. But I had to write it... Read it, and you'll see why. _

_This is dedicated to all the fluffy hearts out there! (you know who you are)_

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Abby was already working on the evidence from the hotel kitchen when she felt another presence join her in her lab. There had been no ding of the elevator, and the fact that she hadn't heard anybody coming told her exactly who it was.

With a swirl of pigtails and skirt, Abby spun to greet her visitor.

"Ziva!" she exclaimed happily. Gibbs had already called and assured her that no one had been hurt, so she was satisfied with giving her newly American friend a fierce hug. But when Ziva's only reaction was to remain stiff as a board while her hands only managed to rest against Abby's hips, the Goth knew everything wasn't as okay as Gibbs had made it out to be.

Pulling back, Abby clicked the remote to her stereo, plunging the lab into sudden silence. She didn't want anything distracting her from whatever was bothering her friend—this was too important. All it took was one look into those big brown eyes for Abby to suspect what was wrong; there was only one man in the world who could rattle Ziva so badly.

"You talked to your dad, huh?" Abby kept her voice gentle. She wanted to take Ziva's hand—her family was always one for physical contact when someone was hurting—but knew that the agent probably wouldn't appreciate it so much. She settled for staying within close proximity, which thankfully Ziva didn't protest.

Ziva's only response to Abby's supposition was a silent nod of her head. The motion was short, brusque, and further evidence that it hadn't gone well.

"What happened?" urged Abby, unable to stave off her hunger for information.

Ziva's mouth opened and closed once, before her head bowed and she struggled to find the words. Abby's heart twisted in a mixture of guilt and sympathy. It wasn't often that Ziva was at a loss of something to say, and this time, knowing the cause… somehow, it made it ten times worse.

Finally, Ziva's head came up. "Nothing," she said bluntly. "Nothing happened."

Her voice was hard, and her eyes glinted, but even that couldn't hide the hurt. Not all of it, anyways. Knowing Ziva, she probably oversimplified whatever did happen, but the look in her eye told Abby that the bottom line was… nothing really did happen. And that probably hurt more than anything else her father could have done.

"Oh, Ziva, I'm sorry…" The agent lifted a hand to wave off the apology, but Abby ignored it. "No. If I hadn't pushed it… I mean, I talk and talk, and I have this really bad habit of assuming that everyone's family is just like mine. I had no right to try and assume anything—"

"Abby, stop." Ziva's voice cut through her rambling like a warm knife through butter. Abby looked at her, and instead of the usual impatience others sometimes suffered during her soliloquies, she found nothing but calm reassurance in Ziva's gaze—the hurt was gone, and even a small smile curled her lips.

"You did not make me do anything," Ziva continued gently. Her voice was rich and soothing, and almost instantly the iron fist around Abby's stomach relaxed as the guilt bled away. A warm hand covered Abby's, and she looked down in surprise.

Go figure.

"It needed to happen, Abby." Brown eyes captured her gaze, stalwart and sure. "I needed to know, one way or another. Now I do."

"But—"

"I did not have to take your advice," Ziva interrupted. "I could have ignored it as American naiveté, and you know it." Abby almost, _almost_ smiled in acknowledgement, because she did know. "But you were right. Because just as you have the habit of assuming all people are alike, you also have a habit of knowing exactly what people need."

Ziva's fingers curled around her hand. "I needed someone to tell me my desire to at least talk to my father wasn't ridiculous. That my hope something could be salvaged between us wasn't some childish fantasy. That's what you did, Abby. Please don't apologize for that."

For a long moment, their gaze held. Abby felt the warmth of Ziva's hand on her own, could see the softness in her eyes and the smile on her lips. It was almost surreal. Who would have thought that the cold, distant Mossad officer of so many years ago could ever be so, so… _warm_? Not her, not when they'd first met. But here Ziva was, being… well, amazing.

And for the first time, Abby realized how close she had come to losing all of that. To losing her.

If Tony hadn't refused to work another case until they got Saleem, if she and McGee hadn't managed to translate that children's song, if she hadn't found the Caf-Pow in that shipment… Or if Ziva hadn't been so completely, unbelievably strong. She could have died out there. And they might not have ever known.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Abby had wrapped her arms around the smaller woman and held on tight. This time, Ziva returned the hug without hesitation, as if her earlier distress had simply disappeared.

"You're dad's an idiot," Abby murmured firmly. "To not want to get to know you, to not be proud of everything you've accomplished… I can't imagine." Abruptly, Abby pulled away, and looked Ziva dead in the eye. "Well, I'm proud of you, Ziva David. I'm proud enough for ten people, so your dad can kiss my patootie."

Belatedly, it occurred to Abby that Ziva probably didn't know what a patootie was, but in the end, it didn't really matter. A moment later, Ziva was the one pulling her into a hug, but not before Abby saw the glimmer of tears gathering in her eyes. Abby didn't say anything, though, instead focusing on giving her best friend the best hug she could.

"Thank you, Abby," a whisper said in her ear.

_Oh, Ziva_, Abby said silently to herself, gripping the agent tighter. _If only you knew. If only you knew that we were the lucky ones._


	68. Outside Looking In

A/N: This took way longer than it was supposed to. It originally was going to be much different, but this ended up coming out rather well. Or so I think. How about you read, and let me know?

Oh, on another little sidenote, there's only about two more chapters left in this story.

Before you all freak out, that doesn't mean the story is ending. I'll still be writing tags to the episodes, and following the canon as it continues to be written, but I think seventy chapters is a good round number to end off on, and then jump over to a second installment, so to speak. And as you'll see in upcoming chapters, it'll make sense to move on to that second installment. Fluffyplotwise anyways. *cough*hint*cough*

So keep an eye out for a few more chapters! As always, thanks for reading!

* * *

Gibbs pushed out of the interrogation room, intent on putting some distance between himself and the smug visage of Eli David. He tried to think of something else, anything else, and subsequently made his first order of business to acquire a fresh cup of coffee.

Once that was accomplished, he then returned to the observation room, both to escape the questions the rest of the team was just waiting to fire at him if he went to the squad room, and just for the pleasure of watching the Israeli Director stew.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the first to think of it. Stepping into the darkened booth, the lean figure of Officer Liat—did he ever learn her last name?—was already keeping vigil at the one-way glass. He considered ordering the girl to leave, but ended up letting the door click shut behind him without saying a word.

It just wasn't worth the protests that would follow, and honestly, if watching might wake this officer up to truth behind her work, then he was all for it.

She was more like the Ziva he had met that rainy night so many years ago. All bravado and cock-sure invincibility, beyond good with a weapon but naïve with blind obedience.

Liat was a good soldier—no questions asked, follow orders to the best of her ability, and mission success at all costs. The only problem was, that life had almost killed Ziva, or at least, the Ziva they'd come to know. Maybe she would have lived to the ripe old age of ninety-nine, or even become director of Mossad in the process.

But it wouldn't have been _Ziva._ It would have looked like her, sounded like her, but it would have only been a shell of who Ziva should have been.

Gibbs could only wonder what kind of girl was hiding underneath Liat's assassin-act.

He didn't realize he'd been staring at Liat's reflection in the glass until he heard her voice cutting through the silence of the room.

"What?"

Gibbs almost smirked. Blunt, incisive, combative—typical. Thank god he'd broken Ziva of that.

He shrugged. "Nuthin'."

He turned his attention to Eli, who was sitting calm and placid at the far side of the table. For a moment, the quiet returned, but it was broken again…

"You were comparing me to her," the Israeli said softly. Her head turned towards him fully. "To Agent David."

Gibbs didn't respond. He didn't need to.

"Everyone does it," she remarked, her voice forcibly blasé. "They watch, and compare everything I do to everything she has done."

Gibbs shrugged. "Makes sense to associate the two of you."

This earned him a laugh that sounded distinctly more like scoff than anything else. "Not the two of us. Just me, against her. She is not the one who needs to prove herself. My scores are the ones compared to hers, _my_ accomplishments put up against hers. It has been that way since day one. My whole life I've been competing against a woman I have never met. I hear whispers, hushed words wondering if one day I'll surpass the great Ziva David." Her voice darkened. "I never have."

Gibbs regarded her from the corner of his eye. "Ziva says you've got a few marksmanship awards to your name," he said finally. "That's gotta count for something."

"Then she must have forgotten to mention that I have only four to her six, and none of my four surpass any of her six."

Gibbs didn't respond to that. Marksmanship scores aside, the two women _were_ similar. They even had that same damn fire to be more deadly. Go figure.

"Even Malachai does it," Liat continued. "He has tried not to put us side by side. But here… he cannot help it, I suppose." She paused then. "He watches her. It's like he's waiting for her to give him the signal, to tell him that she is ready to return."

Gibbs glared at her, but either she didn't notice or didn't care. She continued undaunted. "And the moment she does, he will welcome her back with open arms. Then she will resume her rightful place, and I will be reassigned."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed as he glared at her reflection in the glass. "That's really what you think?"

"It is true," came the resignation. "She is the best, and the best are needed in the Kidon."

His fingers tightened around his coffee cup. "Maybe." This time, it was his voice that was tight with strained calm. He kept his shoulders loose, and even swallowed a mouthful of coffee for good measure. "Still bullshit though."

"Excuse me?" The combativeness was back, chasing away the melancholy.

Gibbs turned to face her, the movement fierce and abrupt. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but intense.

"You're not the only who watches around here," he said tersely. "And if you'd had eyes for anyone but your boyfriend, then you'd see that Ziva doesn't give a rat's ass about him or his looks. Your damn job is safe."

"You are sure of that, then?" It was obvious the girl didn't believe him.

"Damn straight I'm sure," Gibbs fired back brusquely, not bothering to hide his ire now. "She's already got a job."

"And she would not return to Mossad, to Israel, if given the chance?"

"Not even if Eli David got down on his knees and begged her."

Gibbs watched smugly as shock colored Liat's features, only to be quickly replaced with disbelief.

He bit back a smirk; he himself would never have considered the image of the Director of Mossad getting on his knees for anybody had Ziva not mentioned it first. But the words had come verbatim from her lips not six hours ago, during a tense moment in the elevator.

He hadn't doubted her resolve or her objectivity, but she'd reassured him—or herself—anyway. He'd smiled then, and he smiled now, this time earning him a disconcerted expression from his audience.

"She despises us that much? Everything we stand for… everything _she_ stood for for so long? It means nothing?"

Gibbs took a long swig of his coffee. "Aah," he drawled after swallowing, effectively ruining the suddenly tense mood. "She doesn't _despise_ you." He smirked. "Takes too much effort."

Liat's eyes narrowed. "Then what is it?"

"That's something you need to ask her," Gibbs deflected blithely. He turned back to the glass, but he did not look at Eli. Instead he focused his attention on the shadowy reflection standing next to him. He saw her turn back to the glass as well, her eyes dark with frustration at his deliberate non-answer, and another thwarted attempt to make sense of the women she'd spent her career trying to best.

Gibbs, in a moment of weakness he would probably pay for later, took pity.

"If anything, I think she pities you."

In a flash, Liat whirled on him, and he could tell that only the barest threads of self-control kept her from striking him. Her eyes burned with injured pride, but he only returned the glare with a cool glance of his own.

"Pity?" the Israeli demanded, her voice dark. "Me? _She_ is the one who has gone soft!"

"Do your parents know what you do for a living?" Gibbs asked simply. Evidently, it wasn't a question she'd been expecting, and Gibbs was pleased to see her do a complete one-eighty. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes shuttered. Pulling away from him, she turned back to the window, though her gaze remained on him.

"My parents died in bus-bombing when I was fifteen." Her voice was almost a sneer, but Gibbs saw it for the defense it was. He'd expected the answer… was there ever an assassin who _hadn't_ come from a broken family?

"You don't sound too torn up about it."

"I cried my tears years ago," Liat returned. "Now it only makes me stronger. Better."

"Uh huh…"

"It is those with families who second-guess themselves, who freeze in the middle of battle and get themselves and their men killed. I am not so weak."

"Solitude isn't the blessing you think it is." Gibbs' voice was terse, and blunt. "Ziva realized that. _That_'s why she left."

"Her loss—"

"No," Gibbs cut her off quickly. "Her gain." Dark eyes looked up at him, and Gibbs was reminded of another young officer, angry and impetuous. "Working here showed her a life she'd never considered for herself. She saw what she was missing."

"She is selfish—"

"To want a family? To want something other than death and pain in her life? To let someone see her for something other than a name in the hall of records or as the goddamn Director's daughter? If that's selfish, then yeah, color her guilty."

"And who did she think was going to earn that kind of life for her. She knows the risk, she knows that it could end in a minute? She is twice as selfish as anyone else because she _knows_ what it takes to make that kind of life a reality for everyone else—"

"You think she hasn't earned it?" Gibbs snarled. "Is that what this is about?"

This time, no rapid-fire answer was offered. Liat remained silent, her features set and wary.

"You tell me something, Liat," he continued fiercely. "Your parents… what were they like?"

A defiant brow furrowed. "That has nothing to do—"

"Answer me. Were they strict? Did they encourage your artistic side? Press you to get decent grades in school, so you could go to college and get a good job? A doctor maybe? And you… well, you look like a rebel. So let me guess, you broke their rules, hated the fact that they smothered you. You complained to your friends, resented their concern for you, wondered why they didn't just give you your space… Right up until the day they died."

Fire flashed in the girl's dark eyes, and her lips curled into a snarl. But she didn't attack him, as he half-expected she would. Instead she quivered with anger, rooted to the spot.

"And now you realize what you lost. You hate yourself for it, but it's easier to hate them, right? The terrorists and the arms dealers and any other enemy of Israel… You focus on them, you hunt them and kill them so you don't have to deal with your own inadequacies as a daughter—"

"ENOUGH!"

"Not yet!" Gibbs countered, not giving an inch. He took another step into her personal space, not caring about the unspoken risk he put himself in. "You opened this goddamn can of worms, and you're gonna listen."

He took one more step forward, bringing him close enough to lean down and speak softly into her ear. "You're in this business because you blew your chance with your parents. She isn't. She never had a chance. She never had a _choice_."

He pulled away enough just to look her in the eye, focusing on her rather than the image of a broken Ziva sitting scared and alone in the very same interrogation room they were looking in on.

"You think with _that_—" he pointed at Eli, who was still sitting languidly in his plastic chair, "for a family she had any other option than Mossad?"

"She had family besides him…"

"Really? You know that for a fact, huh?" He stared at her intently. "You know what happened to her mother?"

"No," came the soft reply.

"Neither do I" came the sharp return. "No one does. She never talks about her. Never says anything about missing her, never shares happy memories from her childhood, never even told us if the woman is still alive. And if by family you also mean her half-Arab brother Hamas mole who killed my agent, or her sister who was killed at sixteen… Yeah. _Great_ example of the picture-perfect family."

He paused, taking a deep breath to temper the anger burning within him. His anger wasn't towards this girl, but rather for the man on the other side of the glass. The man who had taken so much, and refused to give anything in return.

"You wanna know why it's her name on the leader boards instead of yours?"

Liat eyed him warily, but didn't stop him.

"Because it's all she knows. Because she was doing all of it as soon as she could walk, and your precious _Director David_ made sure she lived up to the family name. She never needed to play catch up. She was in it from day one. She never had the choice you did."

There was a moment of silence as Gibbs let his words sink in. But then she spoke.

"She had her world handed to her, and she gave it up. She is even more foolish than I thought."

Gibbs closed his eyes in defeat. Pushing away from the Israeli he shook his head. "And _that's_ why she pities you."

"What?"

He waved at her with his coffee. "You guys _are_ alike. In more ways than you or anyone else bothers to realize. You're already good, but you're pushing to be better. And like you said… you're not done yet."

A sculpted brow furrowed, and he knew she was wondering how he could know what had been said in the women's bathroom.

"You're doing everything in your power to become exactly like her—making all the decisions she did, doing all the things she did… all the things that nearly destroyed her. So she sees you, and she knows you're on that same path to self-destruction, but she can't say anything, because she knows what it's like."

Dark eyes focused on him. "I do not understand."

Gibbs sipped his cooling coffee, letting the taste of it roll around on his tongue.

"It's easy for me to preach to you. I'm old, and an American who's led a plush little life. But she's been where you are. She knows how attractive the life is, the pride in the job…" He looked through the glass, grounding himself.

"She's heard the call of duty, that's always there in the background… like a siren's call. She knows the bloodlust and the thirst for vengeance. She's _made_ those mistakes, and she's not hypocrite enough to begrudge you yours. Even if she thought you would listen to advice—which she knows from experience that you won't." He rolled an eye towards her. "Too damn stubborn."

Something, a cross between a smirk and pure irritation, flashed across the younger woman's features. She returned to her original position beside him—a respectful distance, though this time it seemed as though her defenses had lowered just a little. Gibbs took another sip. It was interesting; with Ziva, such a small triumph had filled him with pride and satisfaction—and hope.

But this time, with Liat… he didn't feel a thing. Instead, it seemed his thoughts were more focused on Ziva than her 2.0 version.

The realization made him grin, but when Liat saw it in the glass, she seemed to think it was for her.

"The reports said you were socially inept," she commented drily, throwing the words over her shoulder without circumstance. "It seems you are rather quite adept at reading people."

He lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Funny… Ziva knew better when she showed up. But then again, she compiled her own dossiers."

He hadn't really meant it as a dig, but Liat almost flinched anyway. Another reminder that Ziva was a notch above the rest. But, Gibbs realized, at least someone besides himself realized that truth. He'd known it for years, but everyone else never really seemed to appreciate it. At least Liat did.

Maybe he'd finally get Eli David to realize the same. With a final swig of his coffee, he nodded with determination.

"I think it's time to turn up the heat a little bit," he declared finally.

He turned on his heel to walk briskly to the door, and heard her spin softly on her heel to keep him in sight.

"We never had this conversation," she called after him. Her tone left no room for debate.

Gibbs almost grinned.

"What conversation?"

After the conversation in the observation room, Liat kept a clear distance from both Agent Gibbs and Agent David. Not necessarily a physical distance—there wasn't always room for that, especially in the confines of the area they called the squad room.

But she remained wary. Wary of David finding out her own insecurities, and wary of Gibbs reading her like an open book.

Their conversation had left Liat unsettled—when given the chance to truly process the exchange, she had realized how truly astute the older man had been. And to be honest, she was not used to being so easily read.

Malachai had spoken of the Americans as if they were idiots. Blundering fools the lot of them, and filled with nothing but hot air and oblivious incompetence. But in these few short days, she had seen the truth for herself.

The Americans had identified the threat, and then proceeded to eliminate it with no concern to the fact he was one of their own or not. The ruthless efficiency was familiar, and garnered a spark of respect in their own right. She had not expected to see it in the Americans, and she had been surprised to be proven wrong.

But even so, Liat was now glad to be returning home to Israel. NCIS might be more like Mossad than she had originally believed, but it still was not home.

Mossad was home. Mossad was where she belonged.

And so she stood waiting by the elevator with Malachai, watchng unobtrusively over her shoulder as Director David bade his daughter farewell. She almost looked away—there was a tenderness in his eyes Liat had never before seen from her director, and she knew it was meant for Ziva's eyes only.

Maybe Agent Gibbs had been wrong. Perhaps the director had cared for his star operative a little more than he should have. Or rather, just as much as he was meant to. After all, Liat had only ever seen such a light in her own father's eyes.

It was almost… _adoring_.

And adoring was not something she would expect to see in the overtaxed and hardened director.

A moment later, the director was moving to join them at the elevator. His movements were stiff from his injuries, but there was still the ghostly trace of a smile on his lips. Pressing the button one more time to call the slow-moving elevator, Liat took one last look towards the agent, the American, they were leaving behind.

She watched Agent David stand, her head turning to follow her father's path to the elevator. But she made no move to follow, and it was less than a moment before the rest of her team moved to rally around her. One, the attractive one who had flirted with Liat within moments of meeting, slung a suited arm around Ziva's neck, while her other, less cocky companion reached over to rest a hand on Ziva's shoulder.

But those brown eyes didn't tear away from her father until Agent DiNozzo's lips whispered something in her ear. They darted off to the side as she listened, and then crinkled happily as her lips spread into a broad smile. The tears that the director's departure had brought to her eyes sparkled as the older woman laughed, the sound ringing out light and clear across the room.

Liat glanced quickly at Director David, and though he did not turn around, she knew he had heard the happy sound. Nostalgia and a trace of regret laced his gaze, but most predominantly, Liat saw his eyes were simply content.

Suddenly, a tight knot in Liat's chest relaxed, and an unexpected warmth spread over her for a split second. Her eyes returned to the Americans in time to see Ziva wrap her arms around Agent DiNozzo in an affectionate squeeze, before one arm pulled away to reach around Agent McGee's waist. The younger man stepped into the gesture with a grin of his own, and even went so far as to press a chaste kiss to the woman's cheek.

Liat watched in awe, too shocked to even thinking of nudging Malachai into watching as well. It was apparent that Ziva did not care either way—with a smile still gracing her features, she pulled her friends closer, and turned her back on the three Israelis lingering in front of the elevator. A flash of motion caught Liat's eye, and her gaze shifted to see Special Agent Gibbs joining the scene. He had been standing stoically beside his desk, coffee in hand, as Director David had been giving his farewell, but know he took a strong stride forward to meet his team, his own eyes sparkling with pride.

The Marine's gaze was warm, and they sparked with something indescribable as he leaned to bestow a kiss on David's forehead. The public show of affection surprised Liat, but true shock did not hit her until she saw Ziva graceful detangle herself from her male compatriots to give her supervisor room to pull her close. Strong arms wrapped the woman in a fierce embrace, comforting and proud all in one motion.

At that point, Liat looked away. She had respect for the Americans now, yes, but only as professionals. This… this was not professional. These were not coworkers, and a boss was not currently hugging his subordinate. No, this was a family, one Liat was not a part of.

So instead, she turned towards the elevator, and stared at the stubborn metal doors that had yet to open for them. In her mind the scene from the observation room replayed over and over, and she went over it word for word. Agent Gibbs' voice filled her thoughts, and the truths he'd uttered in the shadows.

He had been right, she realized. Agent David had given absolutely no indication that she wished to return to Mossad or Israel. On top of that, perhaps even more surprising, the director had made absolutely no overture to try and convince her to return with him.

Part of her wondered if it was because Director David had deemed his officer too far gone to be of use in the field. In Liat's opinion, such judgment would have been unfounded—her ribs still ached from their brief altercation in the synagogue. But maybe it was something else entirely.

Maybe, just maybe, he had realized his daughter was happy here—apparently, happier than she had ever been in Israel. And maybe the director wanted his daughter's happiness more than he desired her presence.

It was a striking concept.

But strangely enough, it that was not the realization that brought a smile to Liat's lips. Actually, it was the nagging throb in her side that did it. Because, days after the fact, Liat realized the truth of it.

She had finally battled with her legendary rival in person. She had faced off against the great Ziva David, and had held her own.

And, in the same instant, Liat realized Ziva David had been less her rival than a colleague. Together, though defending two different nations, they had worked together and succeeded in eliminating both a corrupt federal agent and the last remnants of a Palestinian terrorist organization.

Not bad, all things considered. And to be honest, working with the younger David had been surprisingly enlightening. She was sharp, and had very clearly _not_ lost her edge. Her reflexes in the hotel kitchen were proof enough for that.

Finally, the elevator doors slid open, and the three Israelis stepped into the car without a word. When Liat turned round once again, she sought Agent Gibbs' tall form once more, trying to meet his gaze.

She was not altogether sure why she felt the urge to make eye contact. Maybe to give a good bye to the man she had had a single conversation with, or maybe to give him a nod of thanks. Because he had been right about Agent David.

And maybe, that meant he was right about her too.

But even at the edge of the elevator, Ziva's new team was out of sight. Gibbs did not come running to impart any last words of wisdom, and Liat was glad he did not. Perhaps it was better this way. This way, she was left with Liat with nothing more than deep words in the shadows and the image of four friends sharing a moment of love_._

It had been a long while sinceshe had seen that particular glow—not since her parents died, really. But she recognized it for what it was, and against her intentions, a small smile crossed her features as the doors closed on its occupants.

Malachai nudged her, a silent curiosity in his eyes, but she shook her head in silent secrecy. She would keep this to herself, even though she knew it would not really matter if she shared it or not.

Liat no longer had her own happiness, but maybe she could appreciate Ziva's, because Ziva had found a family, and in the end, Gibbs was right after all.

Ziva had earned it.


	69. Port in the Storm

_A/N: Here it is, part one of the finale! I hope you all like it! It should have a little of everything for everyone, except for a fight scene, of course. And there's more coming, but if you want to get an idea of what it is, read to the very last line on this page. It's pretty self-explanatory. _

_Let me know what you think!_

* * *

Leon Vance had heard that Eli had left town the day he was released from the hospital, and one look at Agent David's sedate contentment was proof enough of that.

Granted, being at the agency so soon after his injury was the last thing he wanted, and seeing Ziva's smile was only an added reminder that he should be home with his own children, but duty called. There was the matter of Agent McCallister to square away and a SECNAV to brief, and an agency-wide risk assessment to perform. It was a drag, but certainly not something he could foist off on Gibbs.

The man had done enough over the past few days, above and beyond the call of duty. The only reason Vance would even want to see Gibbs today would be to return the knife that had ended up saving his life. Needless to say, rule number six had been well and truly learned—a knife of his own was now secreted away somewhere on his person.

But when the elevator door opened, it was not Agent Gibbs he saw inside, but Agent David.

Startled brown eyes—eyes that were all too familiar these days—looked up at him in surprise as he entered the elevator.

"Director," she offered by way of greeting. "I did not expect to see you here so soon."

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid," Vance answered easily. He pressed the button for his destination, and noticed the other glowing button. "Paying a visit to Miss Sciuto?"

"I was ordered to report for duty," Ziva returned with a smile. "I think she is curious to compare tricks for homemade claymores."

"You two injure yourselves, I'm not coming to visit you in the hospital," Vance countered with a grin, looking to ease the seemingly perennial tension that gripped her shoulders whenever he came near. "I've had enough of those for at least a month."

"I am sorry I did not come to visit you, Director." Slender hands worried themselves around the folder she held. "Things have been busy in your absence, sir."

Vance did not miss the undercurrent of something darker in her tone, and in a moment of impulsive decision, he reached over and flipped the emergency stop switch. The car jerked to a gentle stop, and the lights dimmed, throwing them both into eerie relief. Vance met her gaze squarely, and though he saw her tense instinctually, she gazed steadily back at him.

"Word has it that's the understatement of the year," he delivered brusquely. Her mouth opened to respond, but he lifted his hand to silence her.

"Agent David, you are an _exceptional_ agent. This case was both difficult and dangerous, not to mention personal, but you kept your head and performed with more decorum than any agent I've seen to date. I admit I had some doubts when I first accepted your application to become a federal agent, not least among which was your ability to function well with our allies among the Israelis. But the agent I saw this week, both in the garage downstairs and the hotel kitchen, proved me wrong on all counts."

Brown eyes blinked in stunned silence. Clearly, she hadn't been expecting accolades, and Vance took no small satisfaction from getting in one last dig.

"You are a capable, competent young woman, and I am honored to have you in my service."

In the shadows, Ziva froze, her eyes wide and searching, as though looking for the hidden joke. But when she found none, all she could do was blink, before she straightened and gracefully tilted her head in acceptance.

"Thank you."

He nodded, a small but firm smile on his lips. He let the silence hang for a moment, but then finally broke it himself. "I'll let you get on your way…"

This time Ziva smiled unabashedly. "Then you are doubly thanked," she said easily. "My father is one thing, but the idea of facing the wrath of Abby…"

She let the idea hang, and Vance picked it up without hesitation. "—is a fate I wouldn't wish on anybody." He reached over to flip the elevator back on, but then hesitated. Pulling his hand back, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

He could feel sharp eyes tracking his movements, but he didn't look back up until he had pulled a small square of paper from the depths of his billfold. It had once been stiff and resilient, but years of wear had left it smudged and soft to the touch.

Gently, he took Ziva's hand in his, and pressed the picture into her palm. He opened his mouth to explain the unexpected gift, but he couldn't find any words that would do it justice. Instead, he pulled away, and let the younger woman investigate for herself.

In the dark she turned the slip over, peering carefully at the 2.5" by 3.5" photograph. He knew the exact moment she realized it for what it was. Her frame instantly tensed, and her fingers gripped the photo tightly as her eyes darted to him in shock.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered. Her voice was soft, suddenly tremulous.

Vance tucked his wallet back into his pocket—he wouldn't be taking the picture back.

"I found it in an Amsterdam hotel room," he said simply. "Always wondered who it might've belonged to. Figured whoever had cared enough to lug it all the way to Amsterdam would be missing it, and I just couldn't bring myself to toss it."

He could tell he didn't need to tell her the picture had been to hell and back—it was pocked with tiny burns, remnants of an improvised claymore he'd helped make, and it was scratched and creased with age. But she knew.

"Amsterdam was the start of a long working relationship between your father and I," Vance continued, taking advantage of her stunned silence. "Some days I would even call it a friendship—especially when we swapped stories about our kids." He watched for a reaction, but her expression remained carefully schooled. "We both know your father isn't one for regret… but for what it's worth, you were the closest he ever came to it."

This time, her eyes darted to the photo in her hand, her brow furrowing uncertainly. "So I was his one regret…"

"Hell no," Vance countered quickly. His choice of words earned him a wide-eyed stare. "He had nothing but pride for you. When I first picked up that picture I had no idea if it was you or Tali… until we continued to work together, and each time we started to talk of home and you were the first thing out of his mouth. I think he saw a lot of himself in you, Agent David—but with enough of your mother to counterbalance his predispositional flaws."

It may have been a trick of the shadows, but Leon could almost swear he saw a flicker of a smile on her lips.

"You could do no wrong in his eyes," he continued. "Not even when you beat up little Shmuel Rubenstein on the playground."

This earned him a bark of laughter, and he felt himself smile as well. "Imagine my surprise when I came in to investigate the Director of NCIS, and find myself across the interrogation table from the little girl who'd been sitting in my wallet for the past fifteen years."

For a long moment, nothing else was said.

Delicate fingers traced the edges of the photograph lightly, and in the shadows, Ziva's eyes were dark with thought. Finally, she offered the photo back to him, but he pulled his hands back in refusal.

"I think it's time that was returned to its rightful owner," he told her. "Or at the very least, returned to the family." He looked at her sideways, squaring his shoulders to face the metal doors of the elevator. "But who knows… Maybe you could give it back to him, next time you see him."

"Ah," Ziva scoffed, a smile in her voice. "Nice." She shot him a grin. "Very subtle, Director."

For a split second, he considered telling her to call him Leon, at least in private, but a moment later he dashed the thought from his mind. He knew the importance of maintaining professionalism, and having Gibbs around was enough of a humbler without giving Ziva free reign as well. As if she would ever take the free reign in the first place. He doubted she would stray far from the professional norm, given her background.

She'd never taken presumptions before. Not with her father and not with Jenny Shepard, despite the personal relationships she'd shared with both. It occurred to him that maybe she would appreciate a purely professional relationship with a director for once. Well, the picture in her hand pretty much precluded _purely_ professional, but still, he was the closest she'd ever come to it with a director.

He'd let her have that, if nothing else.

It was the least he could do.

Instead he only nodded with a smile, and flipped the elevator back into motion. In the returned fluorescent light, Leon saw her glance once more at the photo before closing her hand around it. They reached her stop a moment later, and the doors slid open to let her out.

And then, they made eye contact one last time, before she nodded with a tight-lipped smile. A moment later she was gone, her footfalls rapping sharply on the linoleum as she made her way to Abby's lab. Leon watched her go, until the elevator shut its doors once more.

Alone once more, he sighed, leaning back against the wall of the car.

He'd forgotten about this part. In his role of director, he'd forgotten about how sometimes it took one shit-creek case to make a dozen other things right. This was most definitely one of those cases, and for that, he was glad. Because both Davids had earned this second chance.

Now all he could do was hope that Eli could manage to not screw it up again.

Ziva kept her visit with Abby as brief as she could without calling attention to herself. She tried to pay attention to Abby, honestly she did, but the picture in her pocket was burning a hole against her leg, drawing her focus away from the present.

At the back of her mind she could feel the memories creeping up on her, just waiting for her to slip and give them access. But she didn't, she couldn't. She'd shut them away years ago, because it hurt less to not remember what she used to have. She'd said goodbye to most of them when she had eliminated the last of Tali's murderers, but the last remnants of her past had been abandoned when she had put Ari in the ground.

It was all she'd known to do with them at the time, but now the image of her father's softened features haunted her, breaking that lock she had long thought rusted shut on her past. Even now, moving from the elevator to her car, desperate to make it home before her world came crashing down on her, she could feel the warmth of her father's gentle touch on her cheek.

With a shake of her head, she banished the thoughts from her mind. She could feel the burn of tears itching at the back of her eyes, and she knew that the last place she wanted to be was stuck behind the wheel of a car, especially a car as small as hers. She needed space, fresh air, and her usual need for speed was tainted by her father's words the day of the shooting, accusing her mother of teaching her reckless tactics.

Turning on her heel abruptly, she bypassed her car and escaped the parking deck in favor of the crisp evening air of the outdoors. Her trip across the Navy Yard cleared her mind, easing her tension, and by the time she was crossing the property line and moving towards the bridge that would lead deeper into the heart of the city, the weight in the pit of her stomach seemed to have lifted.

Filling her lungs with the cool, familiar smoggy air of DC, Ziva tried to the let the peace of the impending holiday season wash over her. She paused halfway over the bridge, and turned to the rail, looking out at the darkening sky and the brightening windows between her and the horizon.

At first, the seemingly meaningless decorations of turkeys and pumpkins and funny hats that came every November had been so ridiculous it had only accentuated her loneliness. Being in a new country where she knew few, if any, of the traditions had only served to remind her of how sorely lacking she was during the family-themed time of year.

But the next year had been a different matter altogether. She'd expected to spend the holidays alone, but by that point the team had warmed up to her enough that _they _expected her to spend the holidays with them instead. And every year following, the cooling of the air and the decorations of lights and wreaths had become a welcome shift of season, and this time was no different.

Only this time, the warmth was different. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it had changed nonetheless, and though she could not even say it was a particularly bad change, it unsettled her.

The quiet scuff of shoe on pavement behind her told her she was not alone, but the familiar smell of coffee and sawdust assured her she was in no danger. She let him approach, and he came up to stand beside her at the rail.

"Saw you come out here," she heard Gibbs offer by way of explanation. "Wanted to make sure you're all right."

She smiled softly at his concern. "I am all right," she assured him. She turned her head, and was graced with a tender view of his profile. He was looking out over the rail as she had been a moment earlier, but when he felt her gaze, his eyes turned to rest on her in return.

"Yeah," he answered with an easy grin. "I figured you were. But still—I like to cover my bases."

"With what?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled. "You mean your Dad taught you how to play baseball but didn't tell you the lingo? Now, that's just cruel…"

Mirth bubbled up within her, and she laughed in amusement when his features lit with his own happiness. It must have been a long time since she'd really let herself have a good look at him, because even in the shadows his eyes shone, the way they used to when it was just the two of them. In her chest her heart fluttered, and the sensation took her so by surprise that she almost didn't hear his question.

"What's that?"

Ziva blinked, then glanced at her own fingers and was startled to find that she had been fingering the picture again. She had not even been aware of taking it out of her pocket.

Wordlessly, she handed him the photograph, and he took it with careful, almost reverent fingers. As soon as he had it firmly in his grasp, she turned back to the rail and allowed him to view it on his own. But he leaned forward with her, mirroring her languid posture against the rail.

It only took him a moment.

"Holy Hell… Is this _you_?" Her only answer was a grin. "Christ, you must be, what… ten, twelve tops." He paused, taking a closer look. "_Wow_."

This time she finally glanced at him, her expression schooled into a mask of mock indignation. "What?"

Blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "I bet you were a little monkey growing up…"

"Hey!" But her squawk was undermined by her laugh, and all the punishment he received was a light smack on his arm. She could not very well deny it, now could she? Her mother had always scolded her for getting into everything, and one of her favorite pastimes had been climbing the big tree in the backyard.

"But a very cute monkey," he amended.

She slitted her eyes at him. "Nice save."

A chuckle greeted her ears, and his elbow bumped hers affectionately. But when he spoke again, his voice was low and somber, the conversation now serious. "Your dad give this to you?"

He reached over and returned the tattered slip of paper. She took it, and her eyes fixed on the not-so-familiar face within it. "Director Vance, actually."

"Really," came the nonplussed huff of response. "Huh. Didn't see that one coming."

"Neither did I, honestly," she confessed. "Best I can figure out, my father had one of my school pictures with him in Amsterdam. He lost it in the hotel room when the Russian came after him and the Director… Apparently, Vance held onto it for him."

Ziva watched as Gibbs' brow furrowed. "You know, I'm not sure how I feel about Leon carrying a picture of you in his back pocket for twenty years."

She grinned. "Yes. I am similarly unsettled," she teased. "As Abby would say… It is a little hinky."

"More than a little," Gibbs corrected. "But yeah, _hinky_."

She shrugged it off. "Perhaps I should be more upset by it, but… I'm not."

Her attention shifted back to the worn photograph. In the glow of the streetlamp overhead, she could see a broad smile, cocky and sure like only a twelve-year-old's could be. Bright eyes, uncolored by loss and betrayal, stared up at her, gleaming and joyous. And suddenly, the warmth from the festive decorations faded away, and the sharp pain of loss washed over her once again, more acute than any of the loss she had experienced in the years before.

But as her heart felt a chill, her body was warmed by his nearing presence when he stepped closer and put his arm around her. He had her firmly entrenched between his body and the rail in the blink of an eye, the transition so smooth she barely noticed it. She leaned back into his chest, leaving him ample room to curl his arms around her, fully embracing her from behind.

His lips brushed her ear in a gentle caress. "She's still in there, you know."

Ziva's eyes pressed shut against the rising tears. The man was uncanny.

"I am not so sure of that," she whispered.

This time, she felt his chin come to rest on her shoulder. "I am." She almost believed him. He'd always sounded so sure of himself. "And I know better than anyone."

A tear escaped, and traced an icy trail down her cheek. But she couldn't help but smile anyway. "You would," she admitted.

"And so will you," he continued softly. "You'll let yourself get to know that little girl again."

"We can't turn back time, Jethro."

"Then she'll get to know you. The logistics don't matter. But that little girl isn't lost." His arms tightened around her. "Not anymore."

Ziva closed her eyes, and sighed past the knot her throat had twisted into. She let one hand fall to where Jethro's hands were clasped in front of her, and her chilled fingers were instantly warmed by the heat of his skin. He'd always had warm hands, and it served as a welcome comfort when he sandwiched her hand between both of his.

Her other hand lifted almost of its own accord, and didn't pause until her fingers found the bristle of his five-o'clock shadow. He leaned down until his head was even with hers, temple to temple. In the back of her mind, a voice was telling her to pull back, to maintain her distance, before she let herself fall too far to extricate herself later. But at that moment, she felt as though she would never want to detangle herself from this.

As if to spit in her mind's eye, her head turned to press even closer to him, and she could smell the last vestiges of his aftershave along the line of his jaw. It was familiar and comforting, and the nagging voice of caution faded further until all she heard was her heartbeat.

She felt his breaths even out, and knew that he was finding the same comfort she was. And just like that, her mind was made up.

Not removing her hand, she craned her neck that last inch, until her lips were close enough to brush lightly across his skin in the most ephemeral of kisses. His pulse jumped beneath her fingers at the feather-light contact, and it bolstered the confidence she was not altogether sure she felt.

"Come home with me tonight."

The request came out as a whisper, but he heard it. His jaw tightened, and he twisted his head so that he could make eye contact with her without pulling away and breaking their physical contact. Blue eyes searched hers, and she could see his doubt and the trace of misgivings. She couldn't say she blamed him.

He had been wonderful about respecting her boundaries, at times even her whims. But tonight, she didn't want boundaries. And the more she thought about it, she wasn't sure she wanted any boundaries between them at all—ever.

And she would have to convey that to him.

"I need you," she whispered softly.

Part of her expected him to pull away, to shrug off her proposition with the indignation he was afforded. That same part of her wondered if he had found someone, as she once claimed she would if the right substitute came along. She never had, but he would be well within his rights to do so. She had made sure to clarify that their separation had been a mutual liberation.

But to her surprise—or rather, her delight—he did no such thing. If anything, his arms circled more tightly around her, pulling her tight against his chest in a reassuring embrace as the sound of his response reverberated through the jackets between them and rocked her to her core.

"All right."


	70. The Lucky Ones

Gibbs lay quietly in the dark, wondering how he had gotten there.

Not that he had no memory of getting there—echoes of tender words and ghostly caresses that inevitably progressed to so much more flashed across his mind with searing intensity. Even now, his skin was tacky with cooled sweat, and he would have been chilled had it not been for the heat from the body lying partially on top of him, and the warm, steady rhythm of breathing against his shoulder.

He hadn't anticipated the events of that evening when he'd agreed to take her home. But even though he hadn't initiated the overture, his body had responded with near abandon.

Only once did he hesitate, pulling away long enough to voice a breathless protest, something he hadn't really meant as anything more than a token opportunity for her to think about it, to have a way out if necessary.

But she had only looked at him with fiery eyes, her fingers working magic on his skin, sending his pulse racing and his temperature climbing.

"If this is wrong," she had asked, her voice a husky murmur that sent lightning shooting down his spine, "I do not want to be right."

And that had been the end of his protest. Now he recognized that it may have happened too quickly after too long apart for it to have been socially acceptable. But the moment her skin had brushed his, everything but the two of them had ceased to exist.

He had forgotten that it was their first time together since Somalia until after their first run—in a post-coital haze he had looked down at her to find her eyes starry with tears. The sight had jolted him back into reality, and he immediately moved to withdraw, an apology on his lips.

But warm, sure hands had pulled him closer, and he was silenced with a long, tender kiss. When they paused for breath, he had stared into her eyes, searching for any uncertainty. But she had only smiled, her gaze burning with lustful intent.

"Don't you dare stop," she murmured, her words reverberating through him to his very core.

He returned her smile with a kiss, and descended upon her with deliberate intent to reacquaint himself with her once again. It had felt like his first drink of water after a year in the desert, and sparks danced across his vision as he lost himself in her.

It had been both fierce and gentle, even desperate in their fervent worship of each other. He'd tried to take it easy on her, focus more on her pleasure than his own, but she had put a quick and early end to that with her own expert touch.

She worked every one of his weaknesses, with the dexterity of a concert pianist, and if not for his preoccupation with pleasing her, she would have had him begging within moments. As it was, she held back just enough to tease, the nibbles and caresses building a steady pressure at the edges of his periphery, growing stronger and stronger until together they came, and his world exploded in a burst of raw sensation that left him breathless and trembling.

She recovered before he did, it seemed, because by the time his senses returned she was stroking his cheek, his neck. Their eyes had met, and both of them still quivering with aftershocks, she began to kiss the beads of sweat from his chest.

Small, feathery brushes of her lips against his skin nearly sent him over the edge again right then and there, but he was sufficiently distracted by the designs she traced along his back and arms with knowing fingers. Her touch was at first gentle, reverent and exploratory, but soon grew fierce, ardent, and then they had been at it again, and again and again, until they had fallen exhausted to the bed.

And there they had remained, and there Gibbs was now, staring at the barebacked form of one Ziva David who lay tangled in the sheets beside him.

Her hair was dark as ink and as curly as it had been the day they had met. But the features partially obscured by those curls were not the same as that rainy night of hurt and loss. Five years had passed, after all, and they had not been spared the effects of time. She had aged, matured, and her faced showed the changed. It wasn't anything overtly noticeable—time or no, she was still only what… Thirty? Thirty-one?

Man, did that make him feel old… but their romp in the sheets had assured him he was not quite as old as he sometimes felt, especially not if that little smile of contentment on Ziva's lips had anything to say about it.

But those little crinkles at the corners of her eyes hadn't been there before, and neither had the healthy, rosy tint to her cheeks. Her features were softer, lighter, and he knew that it was a result of more than just time. She was happy, and comfortable, and she was herself. Being at NCIS had relaxed her inhibitions, and it showed in the way she carried herself and the way she interacted with others. She was more approachable, in a way.

And God, was she beautiful.

He blinked lazily, and reached over to finger a wild curl. He didn't mean to wake her, but she stirred with a soft mew of sound. Brown eyes blinked open, focusing on him with a smile.

He could feel his lips lift a little in return, but knew it lacked the intensity he would have liked. He hadn't wanted to broach this subject so soon, but watching her sleep had made the vise on his heart close ever tighter, until he could barely breathe.

She must have sensed something, because her brow furrowed, her eyes searching his much as he had searched hers, looking for the barest hints of regret.

"I can't lose you again," he whispered.

It almost felt as though his voice was trembling, but he couldn't be sure how it truly sounded past the roaring in his ears. He waited for her to pull away, for her expression to darken with second thoughts, but neither happened.

Soft lips brushed over his, stealing his breath away. "I'm yours, Jethro," she answered gently. "Always have been."

And just like that, for the first time in months, the weight lifted from his chest. He could breathe easy again, and his first breath tasted gloriously of flowers and spice. She must have felt his heart rate double, because her lips curled into a smile, even as she settled back onto his chest. Her arm looped over him in a one-armed embrace, and her head was up far enough on his shoulder that he could feel her hair tickling his chin.

Gibbs kissed the locks impulsively, earning a sigh of satisfaction in return. He felt the same way—in a rare moment, it felt like everything was right. He had no idea had tenuous it might turn out to be; this time tomorrow, one of them could be in the hospitable with a work-related injury, or the next bad guy could come knocking at their door any minute.

But one thing he was sure of—though she had not voiced it so explicitly—was that any coming strife would have the two of them to contend with, because she wouldn't pull away again.

He wouldn't be alone again, not this time.

Even if they told Vance the next day, and the Director couldn't approve because of regs, well… Gibbs knew he'd had a good run. He'd had his career, and DiNozzo had already proven that he could run the team. Gibbs could retire on the spot without a single regret, and not lose a single moment more with her.

Injury would only give him an excuse to shower with all the attention she deserved, and death, well…

He almost grinned, and pulled her even closer, enjoying the feel of her skin sliding over his as she wriggled to facilitate his desired proximity.

Death would only be the final hurdle. If he lost her tomorrow, he'd be right on her heels. He'd follow her right up to those pearly gates, and Shannon and Kelly would be waiting for the both of them. Maybe he'd even meet Tali up there too. But he wouldn't lose Ziva.

He wouldn't be alone again.

"_Marry me_."

The words were out of his mouth before he even finished thinking them. He wasn't sure he wanted to propose such a development to her so soon, even if they had already talked about it before. Hell, she hadn't even moved back home yet.

But he felt her smile against his bare chest, and she responded without hesitation.

"Absolutely."

He didn't tell her that he already had a ring for her. He'd had it since before the Reynosa clan had even come into the picture. He'd kept it with him, hoping for a opportunity to present itself. And when they'd split, he'd kept it with him still, as a reminder. Even now it was in his pants—wherever his pants were at the moment.

But he didn't need to tell her that now. Nor did he feel the need to give it to her now.

Her word was all he needed.

He felt her sigh against him, and whatever tension remained in her body disappeared. The weight on him increased as she relaxed, but the pressure was a comfort. Her breaths began to even out, and he knew she was drifting off again.

"Love you."

Her words were a whisper, her breath tickling his skin. His fingers traced soft patterns against the bare flesh of her hip, dancing lightly over the jagged scar that lingered there. If she even noticed his contact with the aberration, she didn't give the slightest indication. It warmed his heart, to realize she had accepted the badges of courage for what they were—a part of her, just another piece of what made her who she was.

"Yeah?" he whispered back, more of a tease than anything else.

"Mhmm," she murmured thickly. "Been wanting to say that for a long time."

"I know," he assured her. "I could tell." And he had. In those moments of tense silence, when they were alone and she had come so close to saying something, but had fallen back on the comfort of quiet at the last moment. Or when they were at the office, and he'd catch her looking at him, their eyes meeting for a long moment before she would turn back to whatever she was doing.

He'd felt the words she wanted to say, but never had.

"Good," she responded, her voice tinged with relief.

"Good?"

She nodded against him. "Me loving you was never in question. That never changed. I wanted you to know, but if I had said something… I did not want to hurt you any more than I already had."

He considered that for a moment. Then he nodded. "Thanks." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, giving her a brief squeeze. "But let's not do that again, okay?"

"Agreed," she answered, her voice warm.

She snuggled closer to him, and was there only for a moment before a sharp whine cut through the silence. Gibbs felt a paw flop onto his knee in a plaintive plea for attention.

Ziva froze for a moment against him. "Was he there all night?" she whispered furtively.

Gibbs grinned, detecting the note of growing embarrassment in her voice. "Nah," he told her. "Came in about an hour ago."

She snickered into his shoulder. "Oh, thank God." She covered her face with a hand, hiding her smile. "He probably would have thought you were attacking me."

"Talk about catching me with my pants down." This earned a full-blown laugh, and a light smack to the chest. Chaka's head lifted, and Gibbs knew their cover was blown. With a roll of his eyes, he jerked his head towards the dog. "Fine. C'mere, mutt."

Needing no second invitation, the dog—which had grown considerably since Gibbs had seen it last—wormed its way forwards, until it monopolized the covers that covered the both of them, and settled into the newly-created niche between the two human bodies.

Firmly sandwiched between them, the large block head rested on Ziva's ribs, clearly communicating who his favorite was. But Gibbs maintained his hold on Ziva, despite their impromptu guest, and he merely eyed the dog speculatively.

"He certainly acts entitled, don't he?" he remarked.

Ziva's free arm reached up under the one on his chest to give the dog a scratch behind the ears, causing a happy tail to thump against the covers. "He is entitled, Jethro. After all, you have stolen his spot on the bed."

Gibbs snorted. "Well, in that case…"

"Be nice," came the stern warning. But it was ruined by a giggle, and the rapid thump of the dog's tail. But then, suddenly, she sighed, and fell absolutely still.

"This feels right."

Gibbs smiled. She was right—it did. Despite its absurdity, with both of them naked and exhausted, and a dog in between them, it felt more than right. It felt perfect.

"That's because it is right," he told her softly. "Don't ever doubt that."

She smiled softly. "Never again."

For a moment the room was silent. Outside, Gibbs could hear the sound of branches rustling in the chill November wind through the open window. It was cool in the room, but not uncomfortable. He wondered briefly if she'd left it open out of habit, or because she still couldn't sleep without the reminder that she was not in the desert, on those nights she still had nightmares. Or did she even have nightmares anymore? It was something he'd have time to learn. Because he wasn't going anywhere.

"This feels like forever."

This time her voice was soft, delicate. He could also hear a note of disbelief, as if she couldn't believe that it could all be real. But it was, and that in itself was daunting.

"It is."

Ziva looked up at him for a moment, before looking away, focusing on Chaka.

"It's strange," she said. "Before I met you, I doubted I'd live past thirty. I don't think I _wanted_ to live past thirty. Now here we are, talking about forever." She sighed. "And I'm not scared. In fact… I welcome it."

Gibbs held her tighter. "So do I," he whispered.

He considered everything before them, which would have been overwhelming if not for the fact he wanted it more than anything. Countless birthdays and holidays, and vacations. He could take her to Mexico, show her the cabin on the beach and introduce her to Camila over at the cantina—damn, would they have a blast with that.

Perhaps they would have _too_ much fun… he'd have to reconsider that one.

And maybe, even someday, there'd be kids. And then there'd be Mother's Days, breakfasts in bed with lumpy pancakes and smiling bacon, and not to mention the Christmases. Speaking of which…

"Hey." Ziva's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked down to find her staring up at him with curious eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think we could visit Jackson for Christmas this year?" she asked.

Gibbs grinned. "You kidding? He'll be thrilled." He paused. "Heck, I think he'd probably rather have you than me." Hell, the whole town probably would.

"That is only because he has good taste." She kissed him lightly. "Something you inherited."

"Yeah," he agreed, returning the kiss with one of his own. "But the luck's all mine."

Her head returned to his shoulder, and she sighed contentedly. "You've got that right."

It was a long moment before she spoke again.

"Except this time… I think we both are the lucky ones."

-FIN-


End file.
